; 





Class 

Book 



*» v 



ORIGINAL DRAMAS, 

DIALOGUES, DECLAMATIONS 

b|) 7 

AND , 

TABLEAUX VIYANS, 

FOR 



SCHOOL EXHIBITIONS, MAY-DAY CELEBRATIONS, 
AND PARLOR AMUSEMENT. 



Mrs. KUSSELL'KAVAHAUGH. 



LOUISVILLE, KY: 
JOHN P. MORTON AXD COMPANY. 

1367. 



■ V 



Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year 1867, by 
JOHN P. MORTON AND COMPANY, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the 

District of Kentucky. 



Stereotyped "by John P. Morton & Co. 



CONTENTS. 



OBIGINAL DRAMAS. 

PAGE. 

The Wreath of Virtue 9 

Cinderella, or the Glass Slipper 24 

Beauty and the Beast 39 

The Tattler 54 

The Aunt's Legacy 62 

Preposition vs. Proposition 70 

The Mechanic's Daughter. (For mixed schools) 79 

The Mechanic's Daughter. (For girls alone) 86 

The Spelling Lesson 92 

The Pea-green Glazed Cambric 100 

The Elopement 110 

Mrs. Vatican Smythe's Party 122 

The Perfection of Beauty. (Two Parts) 130 

The Old Man's Pocket-book 146 

Araminta Jenkins 149 

The Dancing Dutchman 153 

The Belief Aid Sewing Society, or Mrs. Jones's Vow 161 

Health vs. Biches 171 

The Minister's Guests 174 

Marrying a Fortune 181 

DECLAMATIONS. 

Salutatory 191 

Speech for a Boy Nine or Ten Tears Old 191 

Speech for a Girl Eight or Nine Years Old 192 

Speech for a Very Small Child 193 

Another Speech for a Very Small Child 193 

Speech for a Small Boy 193 

(3) 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

Another Speech for a Small Boy 194 

A School-hoy's Troubles 194 

Speech for a Boy Ten or Twelve Years Old 195 

Speech for a Child Seven or Eight Years Old 195 

Speech for a Young Girl 196 

Speech for a Small Boy 197 

Speech for a Little Boy and Girl. (To be spoken together.) 197 

Speech for a Girl Ten or Twelve Years Old 198 

The Price of Gold 199 

Speech for a Yery Small Boy 200 

Speech for a Yery Small Boy 200 

Speech for a Yery Small Boy 201 

Turning the Grindstone 201 

The Iron Shroud „ 203 

An Old Tradition in a New Garb 204 

True Greatness 207 

Truth Divine 207 

Truth and Love 208 

On Music 208 

Closing Song 209 

Three Little Graves 210 

True Devotion 212 

Diversity of Character 212 

Summer Fruit 213 

On Slander 214 

The Lord Sees our Innermost 215 

The Boy and the Baker 216 

MAY-QUEEN CELEBEATION. 

Speech of the Crowner 217 

Speech of the Scepter-bearer 218 

Speech of Spring 218 

Speech of Summer 218 

Speech of Autumn 219 



CONTEXTS. 



Speech of Winter 219 

Song of the Floras 219 

Speech of Fashion 220 

Speech of Folly 220 

Speech of Cupid 221 

Speech of Faith 221 

Speech of Hope 222 

Speech of Charity 222 

Speech of Music 222 

Speech of the May Queen 223 

Another Speech of the May Queen 223 

Another Speech of the 3Iay Queen 22-1 

Song 225 

May-Queen Song 226 

Song for Fannie, Queen of May 22G 



AMERICAN ORATORY. 

Andrew Jackson 229 

One Green Spot in the Life of Jackson 230 

The Danger of Discordant Elements of Legislation 231 

Energy the Guarantee of Greatness 232 

Importance of Consistency and Exertion _ _ 

Eeverence for Our Native Land 233 

We Stoop to Conquer v 234 

Taxation in England 236 

TABLEAUX VI VASTS. 

The Four Seasons 238 

The Council of Beauty 240 

Scene between Queen Elizabeth and Amy Eobsart 241 

The Fountain of Bliss 242 

The Stealing of the Keys of Lochleven Castle 244 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

Love's Dream 245 

Beautiful Star 245 

Death of Cleopatra 24G 

Too Late for the Cars 246 

The Beauties of 247 

Peace and Prosperity 248 

The Little Peace-maker 249 

The Thirteen Original States 250 

The Honeymoon 251 

A Year After Marriage 251 

Boring for Oil 251 

Coming to Get Married 252 



PREFACE. 



Dtjbing the several years in which I have had charge of a 
school, a difficulty has always been experienced in procuring 
dialogues suitable for the annual exhibitions, and I have there- 
fore been compelled, from time to time, to write out plays 
adapted to the tastes and capacities of my pupils. Reflecting 
upon the subject, I have concluded that a collection of these 
pieces in the- form of a book will be an acceptable contribution 
to the literature of our schools. "The "Wreath of Virtue 7J was 
at one time printed in a small pamphlet for the convenience 
of my pupils, and has been performed many times and with 
uniform success. The other pieces in the book have never 
before been in print. In presenting them to the public I am 
actuated by a hope that the dull routine of juvenile instruc- 
tion will be occasionally enlivened with a charm not hitherto 
enjoyed. 

As the dramas contained in this book are simple, they will 
be found suitable for home or parlor theatricals. A great deal 
depends upon the expression of the characters introduced. 
Those who perform what the school children call " funny 
parts" should, of course, assume a comical expression; and 
in the more serious characters a grave expression is necessary. 
The process required to obtain this is simple, but not original 
with the author of this volume, and is perhaps too well known 
to require an explanation. Possibly, however, some teacher, 
or the inmates of some home-circle, who have not had expe- 
rience in getting up tableaux, etc., may like to know how to 
secure the different expressions required, and if so, the follow- 
ing hints may give them an idea that will be useful: 

If you desire to appear comical, let your features assume a 
mirthful expression, and get some friend to mark the lines 
thus formed with a fine camel 's-hair brush (such as is used by 
painters in water colors), dipped in light brown. This will 
cause the mirthful expression to remain after your face takes 
its natural form. In this way any expression you desire to 
assume can be retained — either a comical, angry, scowling, 
contemptuous, or silly look. If you wish to appear attenu- 
ated, draw a light tint of burnt cork under the eyes, about the 
sides of the face, and on the upper part of the chin. 

(?) 



PREFACE. 



I remember seeing, some years ago, a book published by 
Dick & Fitzgerald, New York, entitled " The Sociable." In 
it is contained accurate descriptions for planning the stage for 
parlor theatricals, and indeed every thing necessary to give 
inexperienced performers the proper ideas about arranging 
plays and tableaux for home amusements. 

There is one point connected with performances of any 
kind upon the stage that ought to be impressed upon all who 
lake part in such exercises, and that is memorize your parts 
perfectly. It is useless to try to interest an audience with a 
school-exhibition unless each actor is thoroughly versed 
in the part to be sustained, and it requires much more labor 
and practice than most persons are aware of to acquire 
the perfection needed. I recollect once being called upon to 
superintend a May-day celebration, gotten up by the young 
ladies of a small town in which I was sojourning. In the re- 
hearsals I could not impress them with the necessity of learn- 
ing their parts thoroughly, and although I "drilled" those 
concerned once a day for three weeks, when the day arrived 
the whole affair came very near being a failure. 

I merely mention this to interest the girls and boys who 
are in the habit of engaging in such matters, hoping to in- 
duce them never to undertake a thing of the kind in public 
without being certain that they have memorized their parts 
perfectly. 

THE ATJTHOE. 

Lebanon, Ky., June 1, 1867. 



ORIGINAL DRAMAS 



THE WREATH OF VIRTUE. 



A DRA M A . 



CHARACTERS. 

Minerva, the Fairy Queen. 

Celestia, the Genius of Virtue. 

Virginia, the Genius of Piety. 

Urania, the Genius of Beauty. 

Amora, 

Eona, )■ Mortals. 

Ella, 



SCENE I 
Stage neatly arranged. Enter Amora, Eona, and Ella. 

Amora. Sweet is the breath of ruddy morn, 
And bright the dew-drops on the lawn. 
Come, let us to the woodland hie, 
To catch Aurora's fervent sigh ; 
For surely nothing can impart 
Such buoyant pleasure to the heart 
As rural charms, in joyous Spring, 
When Nature smiles, and warblers sing 
Their notes of welcome to the day. 
And blithely dart from spray to spray. 
Retirement ! The happiest life, 
Free from the care of noise and strife ! 
Let solitude and prayer be mine, 
And Fashion's follies I '11 resign. 

Eona. I must confess that Wisdom's voice 

(9) 



10 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Would much applaud your peaceful choice. 

To choose a safe and prudent part 

Does honor to your head and heart. 

By no such modest wish inspired, 

I rather seek to be admired ! 

I would prefer the glittering crowd — 

Among the gay and rich and proud, 

Where etiquette and fashion dwell, 

And grace and beauty still excel — 

'T is there I would my charms display, 

Where noble knights their homage pay, 

Whose highest pleasure is to seek 

The smiles that warm a lady's cheek ; 

While Beauty lights my eyes with fire, 

And connoisseurs the flame admire. 

I would not seek the lonely glen, 

Or leave the busy sphere of men. 

Nature has beauties, I agree, 

But Pleasure most entices me. 

What say you, Ella, would you dare 

Your real sentiments declare ? 

Since dearest friends must disagree, 

Will you dissent from her [to Amora] or me ? 

Ella. My charming friend, I pledge my troth 
Most frankly to agree with both ; 
And, strange to tell, my views retain, 
While I your approbation gain. 
I would not shun the flowery glade, 
Nor spurn the sylvan forest shade, 
Nor would I fly the courtly hall, 
Nor leave the gay and splendid ball, 
To seek for happiness and joy, 
Without bereavement or alloy. 
Naught can o'ercorae the voice of strife, 
Naught can allay the ills of life, 
But a contented, peaceful mind, 
To good or ill alike resigned. 
O ! let contentment be my lot, 
In courtly dome or humble cot, 
To me, dear girls, it matters not. 
Should fate compel me to remain 
In cities large or circles vain, 



THE WREATH OF VIRTUE. 



11 



Had I contentment, all would be 
A heaven or paradise to me : 
Or should I be constrained to go 
Where purling streams meandering now 
Thro' fertile vales, where lilies bloom. 
And roses shed a svreet perfume. 
A bright Elysium I would find 
In a contented, quiet mind. 
Amora, of the grove beware ! 
^Fairies, they say. inhabit there. 
And sylph-like forms are often seen 
Sporting within its shady green. 

Amora. Believe me, Ella. I would not fear 
A being of another sphere ; 
I might among the fairy tribe 
Some good impressions there imbibe. 

Eoxa. The elfin race, I have been told, 
Are ugly, and deformed, and old : 
And must confess, without disguise, 
Old, ugly people I despise. 

Ella. Eona. I must call you over nice ; 
Age is no crime — deformity no vice: 
External forms, both ugly, dark, and old, 
Oft cover spirits of the finest mold. 
Sometimes within deformities we find 
The traces of a good and pious mind; 
Defects of nature we must learn to bear 
If we would dwell in Charity's bright sphere. 
Old age is honored, and commands respect, 
Xor should with scorn be treated, or neglect. 

Eoxa, We will not quarrel, my most charming friend ; 
Opinions all must have — there let it end. 
I still maintain that Beauty has its worth, 
And must be called the jJ^ttiest thing on earth. 

Amora. Come, let us hasten to the fragrant grove, 
And there pour forth a grateful song of love ; 
And I will promise, should we meet a sprite, 
To stand prepared for a retreat — or fight. 
As I am told that sprites are but air. 
Sure we can chase them or confront them there. 



* The voice must be lower* 



12 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Come! let me lead the way; I will be found 

The ji?'ift to enter the enchanted ground. [Exeunt,'] 

{Curtain falls.) 

SCENE II. 

Stage decorated as a grove (Minerva reclining on a hillock). 
Enter Amor a, Eona, and Ella. Amora starts with sur- 
prise when she sees Mixer va. 

Amora. O beauteous being ! we are strangers here. 
And have intruded in your path, I fear. 
Lured by the sweetness of the morning fair, 
"We rambled forth to take the dewy ah*, 
But little dreaming in this grove to find 
A being so resplendent and refined. 
We heard that spirits hovered in this vale, 
Yet deemed it but a legendary tale 
To flight en children, lest they heedless roam, 
With steps unwary, far, too far, from home. 
But had we known this sylvan, quiet spot 
To you was sacred, we would surely not 
Have thus encroached into its hallowed shade, 
Nor this intrusion on your presence made. 
We only wish your lovely charms t' admire, 
To ask forgiveness, and in peace retire, 

[They turn to leave the grove. Minerva rises and 
approaches them.] 

Minerva. Stay, daughters, stay! nor in such haste 
depart ; 
You have the interest of a loving heart ; 
Your youthful beauty my attention claims — 
Your characters as different as your names. 

[Amora, Ella, and Eona turn from Minerva in a 
derisive manner.] 
Nay, do not start, nor in derision turn ; 
The spirit of your minds I can discern. 
Gifted by Heaven with interior sight, 
Your thoughts are open as the morning light 
To my clear vision, and in truth I test 
The ruling love which animates each breast. 



THE WREATH OF VIRTUE. 13 

To solitude you [points to Amor a] would for comfort fly. 

And elevate your feelings to the sky ; 

The follies of mankind you would despise : 

Both wise and prudent in your own bright eyes, 

If Mends entice, your spirit will not bow : 

You say, " Stand back ! I 'in holier than thou.' 1 

A life of use you haughtily disdain. 

And cloistered virtue makes you proud and vain. 

Your mind, abstracted from the world below, 

On wings of faith to heaven s clime would go. 

The bliss of angels you would ever feel, 

And deem religion dwells in pious zeal. 

Xow, dearest daughter, will you frankly own 

The temper of your spirit I have shown ? 

If I have wronged you. or traduced your name. 

Jin humble suppliant, I your pardon claim. 

Amor a. I must confess, bright mistress of the grove. 
Such solitude is what I dearly love ; 
But, sure, devotion can not lead to pride ! 
Prayer makes the spirit humble : and. beside, 
A life untarnished by this world of sin 
Can not contain the seeds of pride within. 
They must be pure who only live for God: 
Those who abjure the world, of course, are good. 

Minerva. The life of heaven can not dwell in hearts 
Who in this world refuse to act their parts 
In social intercourse, and never feel 
The duties which devolve for public weal. 
A selfish pleasure it must surely be 
TVhich sets the mind from obligation free; 
And selfishness must ever be allied 
To all the feelings which engender pride. 
Quite self-dependent man can never be. 
Else he were God — from all assistance free. 
And if from others a support we gain. 
Useless to others we must not remain. 
By pious thoughts and a secluded mind 
You may some feelings of religion find. 
Be not deceived. Stern Reason's light will show 
Such raptures from enthusiasm flow. 
Though to the prayerful ecstacies are given, 
The path of duty is the road to heaven! 



14 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

To you, fair maiden [points to Eon a], now I fain would 

For pleasure and preferment you would seek; [speak, 

In courts, with princes, you delight to stay; 

You love the beautiful, the grand, the gay. 

You 'd skim upon the surf of time, indeed, 

Nor heed the rocks that might your course impede ; 

The deeper waters of reflection shun — 

Too smooth, too calm, to suit the course you run. 

Content to pass your life in splendid ease, 

Or fetes or tournaments your taste would please, 

Where Beauty charms and Fashion holds her sway, 

Where gallant knights their flattering homage pay. 

Now say, my sweet one, do you deem it wise 

Your brightest moments thus to sacrifice? 

In dissipation thus to spend your days, 

Glued to the world, and fashioned by its ways ? 

Say, might you not some lasting comfort find 

In being useful to the human kind ? 

In soothing sorrow and relieving pain, 

Methinks you might the purest honors gain. 

From active life the finest feelings flow, 

And pleasures which the idle can not know. 

Eona. Transcendent being ! native of the skies, 
As fair as good, as beautiful as wise ! 
O, call me not ungrateful should I claim 
The right to act ; and think me not to blame 
Should I object to such an arduous task 
As serving others. Also, let me ask, 
How would I gain by such a listless course, 
Which would, at best, be but a life of force ? 
For I could never, with a hearty will, 
Such a humiliating work fulfill. 
I know I love to dwell in halls of state ; 
I own I like the proud, and rich, and great. 
Why should I not ? The human mind is free. 
I choose my own delight ; this pleases me ; 
And thus my happy moments I employ. 
What pleases others, let them, too, enjoy. 

Minerva. True freedom is the noblest pearl of heaven, 
To every man and every angel given ; 
Yet happy they who live for some good use, 
And dare not such a noble boon abuse. 



THE WREATH OF VIRTUE. 15 

The love of use does not your bosom warm ; 
Time and experience only can reform. 
I only ask, when yon the world have tried, 
Again to meet me, and the point decide. 

[Points to Ella.] 
To yo u, young lady with the blushing cheek, 
Permit me now in kindest words to speak. 
You seek content, and would not choose your lot — 
Willing, you say, to dwell in town or cot. 
Would you the pleasure of contentment feel, 
Engage in active life with ardent zeal ; 
Perform good use to every child of man 
Who comes within your sphere, far as you can ; 
And thus your days will pass with sweet delight, 
And calm will be the slumbers of the night. 

Ella. Thank you, dear lady ! but I greatly fear 
Your good advice will meet resistance here. 

[Lays her hand on he?' heart.'] 
My soul's too selfish, and my mind too weak, 
To reach the state of wmich you sweetly speak : 
Yet I will try your maxims to retain, 
And some small progress in such life to gain ; 
Some great misgivings in my heart I find, 
Unless you aid me. Will you be so kind ? 

Minerva. You may, dear daughter, my assistance claim, 
While heaven's breath will fan the holy flame. 
My dear young ladies, for your sake, 
A strange proposal I will make : 
I have three gifts, and each may choose 
The one she likes, or all refuse. 
If you will wear them one short year, 
And promise then to meet me here, 
In this retired, verdant grove, 

The power of these gifts I '11 prove. [Strikes lier wand.] 
Genius of Beauty ! I command, 
Come forth, with girdle in your hand ! 

Enter Urania, girdle in hand. 

Urania. This brilliant girdle will bestow 
Surpassing beauty on the wearer ; 
Though already young and fair, 
The magic gift will make her fairer. 



16 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Minerva (striking her toand). Genius of Piety, appear, 
With costly bracelet rich and rare ! 

Enter Virginia, Iracelet in hand, 

Virginia. This costly bracelet, on the arm, 
Possesses a most glorious charm : 
To her who wears it. it will give 
Power the life of faith to live. 

Minerva (striking her wand). Genius of Virtue! Child 
of Heaven ! 
O, let your olive wreath be given ! 

Enter Celestia, wreath in hand. 

Celestta. This simple wreath contains a spell 
Which suits the one who wants it well : 
It has the power to impart 
Virtue and goodness to the heart. 

Minerva. Come, lovely maidens, now declare 
Which of the presents you prefer. 

Eona. The pretty girdle must be mine ; 
O, see, it glistens quite divine ! 

[Urania approaches Eona, clasps the girdle 
around her waist.] 

Urania. Lady, lady, you are fair 
As the mountain lilies are ; 
Bright, O, bright your beaming eyes 
As the stars that gild the skies ; 
On your cheek a tender flush 
Which might make the wild rose blush ; 
Your graceful form and lovely face, 
Both formed with symmetry and grace ! 
Wear the girdle, gentle maid, 
And your beauty can not fade. 

[Eona emoraces Urania.] 

Eona. Genius of Beauty, with me stay ; 
Illume my path from day to day. 
You are "twined around my heart ; 
We must never, never part. 

Amora. The oracelet is the boon I crave, 
The gift I would delight to have. 

[Virginia clasps the fyracelet on Amora's arm.] 

Virginia. Lady, lady, you will be 
The votary of Piety ; 



THE WREATH OP VIRTUE. 11 

Your name be lauded to the skies. 

While Faith will make you great and wise. 

[Amora embraces Virginia.] 

Amora. You shall be my guardian sprite, 
And protect me day and night ; 
Never let our bosoms sever. 
You must lead me ever. ever. 

[Celestia approaches Ella.] 

Celestia. The Wreath of Virtue, lady fair, 
Alone is left for you to wear. 

Ella. It hath fallen to my share ; 
I'm content the boon to wear. 

[Celestia crowns Ella.] 

Ella. Of fadeless green, it speaks of peace — 
Its beauty charms me none the less 
Because from gaudy colors free. 
And formed with great simplicity ; 
It suits me well — 't is bright and good. 

[Boies to Minerva.] 
Lady, accept my gratitude. 

Celestia. The wreath of virtue now you wear ; 
How it becomes your glossy hair ! 
A talisman 'gainst evil love, 
"While you keep it, it will prove ; 
And sin your pleasure can not mar 
While Virtue is your polar star. 

[Ella embraces Celestia.] 

Ella. Genius of Virtue, you are mine ; 
Your wreath shall in my ringlets shine 
While in this wicked world I stay. 
"When angels beckon me away, 
O, the wreath will be divine, 
For it will in glory shine. 

Minerva. Fairest maidens, now adieu ! 
Go and wear the boons I ' ve given ; 
We 11 meet again, then each of you 
Will prove the claim she bears to heaven. 

( Curtain falls.) 



18 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



SCENE III. 

The grove. Enter Amor a, Eona, Ella, Celestia, Urania, 
and Virginia. 

Amora. How still and solemn is this hallowed place 
Where first we saw Minerva's lovely face ! 
She is not here, dear girls, but we will wait 
Until she comes, then we will learn our fate. 

Enter Mi:~erva. 

Minerva. Fear not, my children, I am ever found 
By those who seek me on this holy ground ; 
By me not governed is your fate, I own, 
For that depends upon yourselves alone. 
My good advice is all I can entail ; 
Your own volition, then, must turn the scale 
To good or evil. Daughters, I would hear 
How you have fared since last we parted here ? 

Eona. Your brilliant girdle I with triumph wore ; 
It gained me all I asked — nay, even more — 
Of this world's praise than I had hoped to claim — 
The palm of Beauty and the badge of Fame! 
I proudly trod the crowded halls of state, 
And reveled at the banquets of the great ; 
Princes and kings have called me quite divine, 
And courtiers knelt at my all-conquering shrine — 
And I was happy. But my spirit tired 
When I discerned how Ella [points to E.] was admired, 
Not for her beauty, but a softer grace- 
Not for a perfect form or handsome face. 
The Wreath of Virtue to my friend has given 
Charms more divine, charms more allied to heaven. 
What though her eyes were not as bright, 
Yet they reflected purer light ; 
Although her face was not as fair, 
Her modest and retiring air 
Procured admirers of a caste 
Whose talents very far surpassed 
Coxcombs who fluttered in my wiles 
And lived beneath my sunny smiles. 



THE WREATH OF VIRTUE. 19 

Though I attracted many more, 

The quality made up for score ; 

With fewer friends, she seemed to glide 

More smoothly dowa the swelling tide 

Of life than I who could command 

The sycophants who thronged the land. 

Now Beauty's girdle I disdain — 

The gift has proved both light and vain ; 

I beg to lay it quite aside, 

And goodness theia shall be my guide. 

Have you another wreath, to spare ? 

The badge of Virtue I would wear. 

Amoea. I wore the bracelet, and I liked it well, 
For pious feelings did my bosom swell. 
My thoughts on eagle's pinions mounted high — 
I felt that kindred spirits, too, were nigh. 

[Points upward.] 
Up to the skies my towering spirit soared, 
It reached to heaven, and that heaven adored ; 
The praise I gathered language can not paint — 
Called by mankind a consecrated saint; 
Thought to perfection I possessed a claim, 
Till rumor published spotless Ella's fame, 
While every one her active zeal could prove 
In deeds of charity and works of love. 
The simple path my virtuous friend pursued 
Was shunning evil and pursuing good; 
The best preferment she presumed to seek — 
To aid the helpless and protect the weak, 
To heal the sick, to set the captive free, 
To scatter blessings ; and, it seemed to me, 
Compared with her I would no progress gain, 
And my devotion had been all in vain. 
Dear lady, pity, and my wishes grant — 
The gift of goodness now is what I want. 
The badge of Piety I would resign, 
And pray a Wreath of Virtue may be mine. 

Ella. Lady, the wreath you kindly gave 
Imparted all the bliss I crave ; 
Peace' and contentment I have found 
Since that bright day when it was bound 
Across my brow by that sweet girl; [points to Celestia] 



20 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Nor for a diamond, or a pearl 
Would I exchange the simple crest; 
And often, often have I blessed 
The hand which such a boon supplies 
To one who merits not the prize. 

[Minerva addresses Eon a and Amora.] 
Minerva. My dearest children, for you let me choose, 
As you have taken both improper views. 
The badge of Beauty [to Eona] you must not despise ; 
The badge of Piety you, too, [to Amora] must prize. 
The gifts of Nature by kind Heaven sent, 
For recreation and good service meant, 
We may enjoy or we may refuse — 
Also have power those comforts to abuse. 
Some we might worship with the mind and heart, 
And thus perform a most ungrateful part; 
A graven image we would fall before, 
Forget the giver and the gift adore. 
Such acts are sinful, and, than heathens worse, 
We turn the blessing to a dreadful curse ; 
Such worship leaves us hopeless and forlorn — 
To worship God the angel cautioned John. 
What is true worship, you would like to know ? 
The life of love and duty here below. 
We worship God when we the hungry feed. 
Or clothe the neighbor if he stands in need ; 
As unto him the service we perform, 
A righteous act is piety in form. 
As you do it to the least, said He, 
The deed must stand as surely done to me. 
The blessing of retirement and prayer 
We must not slight — the angels meet us there : 
There is a time for that, but still we may 
At other times be innocently gay ; 
Then social feelings make the heart expand, 
Then man fulfills the great and wise command 
Of loving others as he loves himself, 
Nor barters friendship's gold for wordly pelf. 

[Looks at Eona.] 
And what is beauty ? Say, where doth it dwell ? 
Would you look for it in the shades of hell, 
Or would } t ou seek it in the heaven above, 



CHE WREATH OF VIRTUE. 



Where every being is a form of love ? 

I ween there's beauty and perfection there ; 

Then should we scorn it while we linger here? 

External beauty, like the vernal flower, 

Must live, and droop, and fade, in one short hour. 

Such beauties correspond to those within — 

The beauties of a mind devoid of sin. 

There 's beauty in soft pity's melting eye ; 

There \s beauty in a modest, sweet reply ; 

There's beauty in the voice of sympathy; 

There's beauty in the hand of charity; 

There 's beaut}' in forbearance, temperance, truth, 

And in the obedience of a docile youth ; 

There's beauty in an act of filial love. 

Kindness to all the beautiful doth prove 

In innocence there 's beauty, and in peace ; 

In love there 's beauty, and in holiness. 

There's beauty in a patient, tranquil mind; 

There 's beauty in a spirit all resigned. 

Bright cheerfulness is beauteous as the Spring ; 

And surely Mercy is a beauteous thing. 

Sincerity is beautiful as fair; 

In generous minds the beautiful is there ; 

To do to others as you \1 have them do, 

Is perfect beauty, and religion, too. 

Thus Virtue, Beauty, Piety, are one ; 

They can not live apart, nor each alone. 

[Urania addresses Eona.] 

Urania. Lady, lady, do not be 
So very soon displeased with me ; 
If you the Wreath of Virtue wear, 
Best assured I will be here ; 
I can not now be driven away, 
But ever with you will I stay. 

[Eona embraces Urania.] 

Eona. Urania, sweet one, stay with me, 
I may be good and cherish thee ; 
Beauty and Goodness now, I know, 
Hand in hand will ever go ! 

[Virginia addresses Amora.] 

Virginia. Lady, lady, now you see 
You must ever cherish me. 



99, 



ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



Amora. Ever, clearest, thou shalt prove 
The angel who protects my love. 

[Celestia addresses Ella.] 
Celestia. Beauteous Ella, you and I 
Together live — together die. 

Ella. With thine image in my heart, 
We never will consent to part. 

[Minerva points to Amora.] 
Minerva. The badge of Piety you must retain ; 

[Points to Eon a.] 
The badge of Beauty must with you remain; 
A belt and bracelet, too, is Ella's share : 
These useful presents each of you must wear. 

[Presents Ella icith a oelt and oracelet ; Eon a 
vntli a wreath and oracelet; Amora wi th 
a wreath and girdle. ] 
Long as the garland your rich tresses twine 
More lustrous will the belt and bracelet shine ; 
She who to Virtue still continues true 
Possesses Piety and Beauty too. 
O, Solitude! a solace for our hearts — 
There piety its bracing grace imparts. 
How sweet retirement after care and strife ! 
It fits us for the active scenes of life. 
Society has many blessings, too ; 
'Tis there our hearts are bound in friendship true ; 
'Tis there we most resemble those above; 
There we exchange the bliss of mutual love. 

[Turns to oAidience.'] 
Virtue and Piety, or faith and love, 
Are one, this drama sure doth prove ; 
And beautiful the uses on them graven — 
A glorious Triune and the type of heaven. 



{Curtain falls.) 



THE WREATH OF VIRTUE. 23 



COSTUMES. 

Minerva. Dress of white, very light material, profusely 
spangled ; a crown of brilliants ; she bears a wand, wrapped 
with tinseled ribbon and flowers ; the wand is finished at the 
top by a gilded spear, to which is suspended a girdle, a wreath, 
and a bracelet. (Emblematic.) 

Celestia, Virginia, and Urania. These fairies should be 
represented by little girls ; dresses of any light white material, 
spangled; wreaths of flowers on the head. 

Amora. Dress of blue silk, trimmed in blonde ; pearl orna- 
ments ; wreath of flowers on the hair. 

Eoxa. Dress of orange-colored tarlatan, trimmed in black ; 
jet or brilliant ornaments; jeweled tiara. 

Ella. Dress of white tarlatan, the skirt trimmed in pyra- 
mids of pink satin ribbon ; a berthe of blonde lace and pink 
ribbon ; wide pink ribbon sash ; hair plain. 



24 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



CINDERELLA, OR THE GLASS SLIPPER. 

SIMPLIFIED FROM THE ORIGINAL. 



CHARACTERS. 

Felix, a Prince. 
Arabella Pompomno, ) 

Josephine Pompoltno, > Sisters. 

Cinderella. ) 

Pedro, a Servant. 

Faiiy, Godmother to Cinderella. 

Page. 



SCENE I. 



Home Scene. Arabella a?id Josephine standing oefore a 
mirror, arranging their toilets alternately. 

Arabella. Josephine, how do I look ? 

Josephine. (They ooth come foricard.) Beautiful! Splen- 
did ! How do I look ? 

Arabella . Enchanting ! I wonder what has become of 
Pedro. I wish he would come ; I am so impatient to see 
our things. 

Josephine. So am I. 

Arabella (walls about). O! how my heart beats ! Just 
think, we are invited to the Prince's grand ball ! 

Josephine (walks about). O! I'm all in a flutter/ 

Arabella. Who knows but we may catch a duke for a 
husband I 

Josephine. And then we shall be called "My Lady!" 
(Tosses her head.) 

Arabella. Suppose the Prince himself were to fall in 
love with us ! 

Josephine. Mercy ! It is too grand to think about. But 
see (loohs out), here comes Pedro at last! 



CINDERELLA. 



25 



Enter Pedro, loaded with paper boxes and bundles of various 
sizes; throws them clown; gives a prolonged whistle. 

Pedro. O. I have had such a time ! 

Arabella. Did you get all the things ? 

Pedro. Yes: all that I didn't get. [Takes up a box, 
reads.] Kid slippers, number seven. 

Arabella {jerks the box). They are mine! 

Pedro (takes up another box). Kid gloves, number eight. 

Josepihne (takes box). They are mine: that's my siztr. 

Pedro. Madame Xoequet says the dresses will be done 
in time. 

Arabella (touches one of the bundles with hen foot). vVJiat 
is this \ 

Pedro. Stays. 

Josephine (touches another bundle). \Yliat is here? 

Pedro. Ribbon and feathers. 

Arabella (touches another). And this? 

Pedro. Powder and paint. 

Arabella. You are so vulgar ! You should say rouge. 

Josephine (points to another box). TThat is in this? 

Pedro. Silk stockings. 

Arabella. There it is again ! Say hose. 

Pedro (mimics her). Well, hose! 

Arabella. Xow, Pedro, take all those boxes up-stairs — 
that is a good fellow — and then tell Cinderella to come 
to me. 

Pedro {gathering vp all the boxes and bundles). I will. 

[Exit Pedro.] 

Josephine (toalks to and fro). O, I know my Spanish 
hat and feathers will lie so becoming! 

Arabella. If we can only catch a rich husband I will 
be satisfied. I do not believe that the lords and dukes can 
resist )nu charms! [Tosses her head; walks about.] 



Enter Cinderella. 

Arabella. Come here, you little ash-pat. Your sister 
Josephine and myself are invited to the Prince's grand ball 
to-night, and we wish you to get all your work done in time 
to assist us in dressing. 

Josephine. And be sure you do it. 

Cinderella. O. how I would like to £0 ! 



26 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Arabella {disdainfully). You go ! What would a little 
sneak like you look like in a palace ? 

Josephine. What impudence ! 

Cinderella. I do not care. I would like to go. I never 
was at a ball in 1113- life. 

Arabella. Humph ! and you never will be — that 7 s more. 
Go back to the kitchen, child, and do not trouble your silly 
head about balls. 

Josephine. Yes, go along, for you are not fit to be in the 
parlor with ladies. [Exit Cinderella.] 

Arabella. It would never do to let her go to that ball. 

Josephine. No, indeed ; she is too pretty. 

Arabella. As long as we can keep her snuffing ashes in 
the kitchen corner she will not be in our way. But it is 
getting late, and we must begin to dress, and try to look our 
best ; for if we do not secure a rich husband, father will 
never be done fussing about the bills. 

Josephine. That is true. 

{Curtain falls.) 



SCENE II. 

A dingy Mtchen. Cinderella stands near a table, engaged 
in washing dishes. Enter Pedro. 

Cinderella. O, Pedro ! I am so glad to see you ! Do, 
pray, come and help me. [Pedro assists her.] Arabella 
and Josephine have given orders to me to finish my work so 
as to be ready to assist them in dressing for the Prince's 
grand ball to-night. 

Pedro {wiping a plate). I think the Prince must be at a 
loss for company when he invites them. 

Cinderella. Do n't you know the reason he invited th em ? 

Pedro (wiping a sauce? 1 ). No. What? 

Cinderella. Why, the Prince was hunting in the woods, 
and was separated from his companions and lost his way. 
Just then our father came along and helped him to find the 
right path ; so, out of gratitude, the Prince invited the girls 
to his big ball. 

Pedro (putting the plates together). Oho ! that 's the way 
of it ? I think he ought to have invited you, for you have 



CINDERELLA. 27 



more beauty in your little finger than they have all put 
together ! 

Cinderella. I wish I could go to the ball ! [Arranges 
the dishes.'] 

Pediio. I wish you could, Cinderella; but, you know, ;i if 
wishes were horses, beggars could ride." 

Cinderella. I wonder if I will always be stuck down 
in this old kitchen ? 

Pedro. I hope not; but do you run along and help 
them jades to dress, for it will take a sight of pains to make 
them look pretty. 

Cinderella (fakes the broom). I have to sweep yet. 

Pedro. Go along ! I will sweep. Here, give me that 
broom. 

Cinderella (hands Pedro the broom). Thank you, Pedro. 

[Exit Cinderella.] 

Pedro (sweeps a moment, comes forward, flourishes the 
oroom). Don't I wish I was a man? I would put Cinde- 
rella where she would never be imposed on! [Sweeps; 
stojjs.] It is a shame, the way they keep the poor girl hid 
in the kitchen ! I hope Arabella and Josephine may take 
the cramp in their feet, so they will not be able to dance a 
step. Never mind ! It 's a long lane that has no turn ! [Puts 
the oroom down.] 

Enter Cinderella. 

Pedro. What ! back already ? 

Cinderella. O, yes; they were so impatient they could 
not wait for me. Thank goodness ! they are dressed and 
gone. 

Pedro (places a chair near the front of stage for Cinde- 
rella, also one for himself). I am glad too; but sit down, 
Cinderella, I want to talk to you. [Cinderella takes a 
seat; Pedro sits doion by her.] Cinderella, I have a sweet- 
heart ! 

Cinderella. You, Pedro ! 

Pedro. Yes, me! 

Cinderella (laughs). I would like to see her. 

Pedro. O, she is a bird ! 

Cinderella. What is her name ? 

Pedro. Her name is Mary ; and when I get old enough 
we are going to marry. 



28 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



Cinderella. Pedro, you are so funny ! 

Pedro. There is no fun about that. We are going to be 
married ; and I intend that you shall live with us, and then 
if any body imposes on you I '11 — [Knock heard outside.'] 

Cinderella (starts). What is that? 

Pedro. O, it's nothing but the rats. You shall live 
with us, Cinderella, and — [Another knock heard A 

Cinderella (rises). O, Pedro, what is it? 

Pedro (rises). I tell you it is nothing. 

Cinderella (catches Pedro by the arm). O, I am so 
frightened ! Maybe it 's robbers ! 

Pedro. Robbers, your granny's foot ! Hold ! Let me get 
the broom! [ Takes broom in his hand ; assumes a defensive 
attitude. Knock heard again, louder.] Come in; I'm ready 
for you ! 

Enter Fairy, enveloped in a cloak. 

Pedro (starts). It is a witch! 

Fairy (drops cloak and appears in tlie dress of a fairy). 
You are mistaken ; I am no witch. 

Pedro. So I see now. [Aside.] She is a pretty little 
thing. 

Fairy (to Cinderella). I am a fairy, and presided at 
your birth. I am your godmother. 

Pedro (aside). A young-looking mother ! 

Fairy. I promised to watch over you and guard you 
from evil. 

Pedro (aside). You 've been a long time beginning! 

Fairy. I came to see you to-night. But, child, you look 
sad ! What troubles you ? 

Cinderella. I am unhappy — I wish — I wish — 

Fairy. You wish to go to the Prince's grand ball. Have 
I guessed rightly, my goddaughter ? Speak ! 

Cinderella. You have, dear godmother. 

Fairy. I will contrive that you go. 

Pedro (aside). I hope she is not going to play any tricks. 

Cinderella. 0, law ! if you can do that, you are indeed 
a witch ! 

Fairy. That is an ugly word, my child ; I am more than 
a witch ; I am a fairy, and fairies possess much power. But 
come, time is flying and the ball has begun. Pedro ! 

Pedro. Well ? 



CINDERELLA. 29 



Fairy. Run in the garden and bring me a pumpkin. 

Pedro. A what : 

Fairy (stamps her foot and frowns). Obey me ! 

Pedeo. I am gone. [Exit Pedro.-] 

Fairy. You will wonder at my power, Cinderella, "but I 
I never use it except on rare occasions ; and it is for your good 
, I now display my magic skill. 

Enter Pedro, with apumpMn. 

Pedro. I wonder what this has to do with the ball ? 
Fairy. Put it down. Xow go and bring me four mice 
i in a trap, and another pumpkin. 

Pedro. Ail right. " [Exit Pedro.] 

Fairy. Remember, Cinderella, you must obey all I say, 
to the letter. 

Cinderella. I promise. 

Enter Pedro, with trap. mice, and pumpkin. 

Pedro. What are you going to do with these varmints 2 
Fairy. In ever mind. [To Cinderella.] In this [pt ti 
to first pumpkin] you will find every thing necessary 
J your toilet. 

Pedro (aside). Ill believe that when I see it. 
Fairy {to Pedro). You must go with Cinderella to the 
; ball. 

Pedro (holes down). What! in these old clothe- : 
Fairy. You will rind a full suit in the pumpkin with 
; Cinderella's clothes. 

Pedro (aside). That must be a wonderful pumpkin ! 
Fairy (to Pedro). Take these ['points to pumpkin and 
mice], and after you are dressed break the pumpkin, and a 
| line carriage will appeal'. Then let the mice out of the trap : 
, two of them will turn to splendid horses, and the other two 
; will be changed to a footman and driver. You must go in 
| the carriage to protect Cinderella. 

Cinderella. I wonder if I am dreaming ! 
Pedro. I wonder if I am, myself ! 

Fairy (to Cinderella). Mark my words and obey me: 
You can remain at the ball till the dock strilrs twelve ; but 
if you stay one minute longer, your fine clothes will be 
turned to rags, and you will be betrayed. 

Pedro (aside). I begin to feel like a lord already. [ To 



>0 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



Fairy.] Do not fear; if Cinderella forgets, I will be on the 
watch. 

Fairy. Very well, then ; I will trust yon. [ To Cinder- 
ella, raising her finger in a learning attitude.'] Remember ! 
t-w-e-1-v-e o'c-l-o-c-k ! * 



{Curtain falls.) 



SCENE III. 

Prince's palace. Ball-room handsomely decorated. Several 
girls and boys, who have no other part in the play, can 
appear in this scene, as the tall-room must contain groups, 
so as to give the appearance of a real party. Ladies and 
gentlemen promenading, conversing in pantomime. Ara- 
bella and Josephine appear in extravagant costume. 
Prince Felix, in front of stage, in full royal dress, walks 
to and fro. A hand of music plays till the entrance of 
Page. The music should continue a few seconds after the 
curtain rises. 

Enter Page. 

Page (bows). Gracious Prince, a beautiful princess, whose 
name we did not hear, has just arrived. 

Prince. Conduct the stranger to our presence. 

[Exit Page.] 

Arabella {advances near the front of stage, opposite the 
Prince; leans on Josephine's arm). A princess without a 
name ! Who can she be ? 

Josephine {aside). I hope she is ugly. 

Enter Cinderella and Pedro. 

Pedro {to Prince). O, most magnificent Prince! [Bows.] 
O, most contemptible Prince! [Bows.] O, most diabolical 
Prince ! [Boies.] Allow me [takes Cinderella by her hand] 
to present to you this lovely lady. [Bows.] 

Prince {comes forward). Welcome, most beautiful Prin- 
cess ; and grant me the honor of your hand for the dance. 

[Exit Pedro.] 

* Care must be taken by the teacher to place the performers in the best 
attitudes at the end of each scene, so that, when the curtain falls, the 
group will form a grand tableau. 



CINDERELLA. 31 



[Cinderella courtesies ; Prince takes her hand, leads her to 
the dance; a cotillion or quadrille is formed; all dance. 
When the dance is ended,, Prince, Cinderella, and com- 
pany promenade, and converse in pantomime. Arabella 
and Josephine, near front of stage, looking enviously at 
Cinderella, out do not recognize her. Enter Pedro, with 
a large piece of cake in each hand ; oites each piece alter- 
nately ; approaches Arabella.] 

Pedro. While you were all dancing I got my supper. 
Do you love cake ? [Arabella looks contemptuously at 
Pedro. Aside.] By the piper, she does not know me! 1*11 
ask her to dance! [Runs to side of stage; puts the cake 
close against the wall ; covers it carefully with his handker- 
chief; returns to Arabella; bows profoundly. ;] Most beau- 
tiful lady ! will you dance with your humble-come-tunible ? 
[Arabella accepts ; another cotillion is formed; all dance. 
When the set closes, the Prince claims the hand of Cinderella 
for a fancy dance; they schottische, waits, or polka. While 
they dance the clock begins slowly to strike twelve-, Pedro runs 
to Clnderella: pulls her without ceremony from the arms 
of the Prince; he resists; Pedro succeeds in pulling Clnder- 
ella off the stage; in the confusion she drops one of her tiny 
slippers. Music ceases. The Prince picks up the slipper, 
walks to front of stage, holds the slipper in full mew of the 
company.] 

Prince. Half my kingdom would I give to know the 
owner of this slipper. 

Enter Page, hastily. 

Page (approaches Prince). Your gracious highness, there 
must be witches about ! I thought you would like to know 
the whereabouts of the strange Princess, and so I followed 
her and that queer servant of hers ; and. would your Majesty 
believe it? as quick as that [snaps his fingers] they had van- 
ished, and there was nobody at the gates but a little dirty- 
looking gh*l and boy, who had been skulking round the 
palace, no doubt to steal something: and I drove them off. 

Prince (frowns). Away with your prating, and break up 
the dance; for I will henceforth have no peace till I find 
the owner of this slipper ! 

(Curtain falls.) 



I 32 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

— — — — ■ 

SCENE IV. 

| Stage as in first scene (Arabella and Josephine seated at 

breakfast.) 

Arabella. This is abominable tea. 

Josephine. And this bread is not fit to eat. [Throws it 
down passionately.'] 

Arabella. I do not know what has come over Cinder- 
ella lately. She is positively good for nothing. 

Enter Cinderella in home dress. 

Arabella. Look at her ! She looks as if she had been 
dissipating. 

Josephine. O Cinderella ! you ought to have been at the 
ball. 

Cinderella. Did you enjoy it? 

Arabella. O, yes. it was magnificent! There was a 
young princess there, the most angelic creature you ever 
saw ! 

Josephine. Yes : dressed so elegantly ! 

Cinderella. Who was she ? 

Arabella. Aye. that 's it ! Nobody knew whore she 
came from. She disappeared as suddenly as she came. 
The Prince fell desperately in love with her. 

Josephine. Do you know, Arabella, I thought the fellow 
who was with her looked like our Pedro I 

Arabella {curls her Up). Why, Josephine! I am aston- 
ished. He danced one set with me, and I was enchanted. 
He was so graceful ! 

Ctnderella (aside, laughs). I'll tell Pedro. 

Enter Pedro ; flourishes a printed paper. 

Pedro. Run here, every body ! Rise, Jupiter, and snuff 
the moon! Hurrah for hurra ! [Flourishes paper '.] 

Cinderella. What is the matter ? 

Pedro. O, here is a jn'oclamation by the Prince ! 

Arabella. By the Prince? [Rises.] Let one read it. 
[Tries to take it from, Pedro.] 

Pedro. No! let me read it. 

Josephine (approaches Pedro). Let me read it! [All 
scuffle for the paper.] 



CINDERELLA. 



Pedro (takes paper ; comes forward). No, no! Let me 

read it. I say! [Meads in a loud voice.'] 

'•PROCLAMATION BY SUPREME COMMAND. 

% ' ; We, Felix the Second, ruler of this domain, do hereby 
make known that we will take to wife and share our heart 
and throne with her whose foot shall lit the little glass 
slipper found at the ball last night." 

Pedro {looks at Cinderella'). Aye! 

Arabella. O, mercy! I must go and prepare to make 
a trial: for. if squeezing will do any good. I will get that 
slipper on! [Exit Arabella." 

Josephine. And I will chop off my heels and toes i at 
I will get it on! [Exit JosepeclneC 

Pedro (looks after them and puts lis thumb on the I y 
hu nose; burns to Clnderella). 

They may pare their heels 

And cut their toes, 
But on your foot 
That slipper goes ! 

Cinderella. All. Pedro! it will never go on my i t. 
I have no clothes fit to appear in. and the fairy will n : 
come again. 

Pedro. Fairy or no fairy, you shall go to the pal 
and try on that slipper. 

Cinderella. But look at this shabby dress! 

Pedro. It doesn't matter about the di- ess ; yoni f t is 
all that is wanted. 

Cinderella. Pedro, they will refuse me a trial. 

Pedro. Xot when they see that foot. Small as it :?. it 
will kick down all objections. 

Cinderella. If they refuse. I can but die ! 

Pedro. Die. indeed! If I know yon to do such a foolish 
thing. I "11 never forgive you! Come along: we must r ^o. 
Ill saddle the blind mart- in a minute, and we can trot~to 
the palace in less than no time. So. come along! IT 
Cinderella by the arm.] 



(Curtain falls.) 



34 ORIGINAL DRAMAS 



SCENE V. 

Prince's Palace. Ladies in attendance. Prince walks to and 
fro in front of stage. 

Prince (stops). My project thus far has failed. The 
slipper does not fit a lady present; and yet, I know not 
why, my heart seems lightened since I have taken this 
method to discover the owner of this toy. [Twirls the slip- 
per in Ms fingers.'] If it fails, my hopes are all destroyed. 

Enter Page. 

Page. The Ladies Pompolino are in the ante-chamber. 
They have come to try the slipper. 

Prince (aside). Those silly, simpering maidens! [To 
Page.] Admit them. [Exit Page.] All eager to claim my 
hand. But I know this [holds the slipper in mew of audi- 
ence) will never fit the Ladies Pompolino. The idea is too 
absurd. 

Enter Arabella and Josephine. 

Prince (dotes). Ladies, you are welcome! Permit the 
Page to superintend your trial. 

Arabella. Gracious Prince, this is flattering. 
[Page leads Josephine to center of stage, near the front, 

where a seat is arranged for those tcho try the slipper. 

Josephine sits cloion ; takes the slipper from the hand of 

Prince; examines it. ~\ 

Josephine. Sweet Prince, if, fated by fortune, this should 
fit my foot — 

Arabella (sneer in ghj). Your foot! Why, Josephine, 
your foot is like a mill-stone! [Turns to Prince.] It is for 
me, no doubt, dear Prince, the honor is reserved. 

Prince (coldly). The result will show, madam. 

Josephine (to Page). I am ready. 

Page (takes slipper and kneels at Josephine's feet). 
Now, make your foot as small as possible. [Tries on the 
slipper.] 

Josephine (shrinking). 0, dear me! 

Page. What the deuce is in your stocking ? 

Josephine (wincing). My foot! O, dear! I can not stand 
the pain ! 



CINDERELLA. 35 ! 



Page (forces the slipper). Where the plague is your 
heel? [Josephine screams with pain, takes her awn shoe in 
her hand and hobbles to the side of the stage.] 

Arabella (advances). I knew it! I knew it ! Your foot 
always was enormous! [Takes seat,] Now, sir! [Page 
kneels and tries the slipjper on Arabella's foot.] 

Arabella. Gently ! You are so awkward ! 

Page. Indeed, I am not awkward. 

Arabella (with grimace). Do you want to cripple me? 

Page. It is worth a lame foot to be the wife of a prince. 
There, it is on ! 

Prince (starts forward in surprise). How? 

Page. I mean — all but the heel ! 

Arabella. I can not bear it. The slipper is too short. 

Page. It is your foot that is too long. [Arabella rises 
and hobbles to back of stage.] 

Voice (without). You can't come in here. 

Pedro. I will go in. 

Voice. Back, I say ! 

Pedro. I won't go back ! 

Prince. What noise is that ? 

Pedro (without). I'll have my say, or I'll die! 

Enter Pedro. 

Pedro. O, most wise, extravagant, and dreadful Prince, 
hear me first, and then — drive me out ! 

Arabella. It is Pedro, as I live ! 

Page. Shall I take the fellow out ? 

Prince. No; attention to inferiors is becoming in all 
ranks. What do you seek, good fellow ? 

Pedro. My business here is to try the slipper. [All 
laugh,] Not me; but I ask the trial for a lady. She is 
without, and all she wants is to show her foot. 

Prince. Conduct the lady before us. [Exit Pedro. A 
soft strain of music] O, those sounds! 

Enter Pedro and Cinderella. Music ceases. 

Pedro (to Cinderella). Keep your little heart up, and 
show your foot. 

Arabella. "What assurance ! She shall starve a month 
for this. 

Josephine (aside). I'll tear her eyes out, the upstart! 



30 I [NAL DRAMAS. 

Cinderella (looks down). Mighty Prince, I have ven- 
tured into your presence to try — to try — 

Pedro. O, to try on the slipper ! Speak it out, and 
show your foot — show your foot! 

Prince (in surprise). You! 

Pedro. It 's no use to stand on trifles. Sit down here, 
Cinderella. [Leads Iter to the seat.] Show your foot, I tell 
you — the sooner the better. [Cinderella takes the seat. 
Pedro jerks the slipper from the hand of Page; stoops and 
puts it on Cinderella's foot; puts the heel in the palm of 
his hand; raises it in view of the audience ; looks triumph- 
antly at Prince.] See, your highness, it is a perfect fit! 
[Prince covers his face with his hands. All the company press 

forward and form a semi-circle around Cinderella, oe- 

tween her and the audience, thus affording Pedro and 

Cinderella time to slip off the outer dress which hides 

their ball dresses, without being seen by the audience. When 

this is accomplished, all fall back. The Prince discovers 

Cinderella: runs to her; takes her hand and leads her 

to front of stage.] 

Prince. My fondest hopes are realized; and now, fair 
one, tell me your name. 

Cinderella. My name is Cinderella, and I am the sister 
of the Ladies Pompolino. [Arabella and Josephine turn 
their faces away.] 

Prince. Can this be true ? 

Pedro (swaggering proudly). Yes, sir. it is true. They 
have abused and trampled on Cinderella, and now they 
are being paid for it. Chickens will come home to roost. 
[Looks mischievously at Arabella and Josephine.] 

Cinderella. Silence, Pedro! (To Prince). The cruel 
treatment of my sisters is forgotten in the happiness of this 
hour. I freely forgive them, and beg you to treat them 
kindly. 

Prince. I will take them into favor upon one condition 
onlv, and that is that you will make me master of this 
hand. [Takes her hand) 

Pedro (aside). And foot! For that did the work ! 

Cinderella. And I will grant your request upon one 
condition. 

Prince. Name it. 

Cinderella. That Pedro shall become one of our house- 



CINDERELLA. 



hold. He lias been my friend in adversity, and must re- 
main my friend in prosperity. 

Enter Fairy Godmother; approaches Prince and Cinder- 
ella; stands between them, in full view of the audience. 

Fabry, Mortals, behold the example of this good and 
beautiful child, and know that Virtue and Humility are 
Heaven's peculiar care. Sweet Cinderella, thou hast been 
humble in thy poverty: be modest in thy greatness. [Joins 
the hands of Prince and Cinderella.] My pleasing task 
is done! 

(Curtain falls slowly. A strain of soft music accompanies 
it. The closing scene of this play forms a beautiful 
tableau.) 



COSTUMES. 



Arabella and Josephine, in the scenes at home, should 
have on tawdry morning dresses. 

Cinderella is dressed (until her appearance at the hall) in 
a loose home dress, of dingy colors; this dress should he made 
to tie up in front, the sleeves tied in the same way with short 
tape strings, As this dress is slipped over the hall dress (in 
the last scene), and when the company form a half circle 
around her at the trial of the slipper, it can he untied and 
slipped off so quickly that, to the audience, the change is like 
magic. Cinderella's hall dress is light illusion or tarlatan, 
spangled profusely ; the slippers made of white satin, and cov- 
ered with spangles or mica to represent glass. 

Pedro, in home scenes, must have a loose suit, as the transi- 
tion in the last scene must he the same as that of Cinderella. 
Pedro's hall dress ought to he ludicrous in the extreme: tight 
knee-breeches ; silk stockings ; slippers with enormous buckles ; 
a swallow-tail coat; big brass buttons; fancy vest; parti- 
colored neck-tie ; high shirt-collar ; a "stove-pipe" hat. 

Fairy. Dress of white, spangled ; gauzy wings would be 
an addition. 

Prince. A handsome Highland dress would look well; 
white satin trousers; satin doublet, both embroidered with 



38 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

gold ; a cardinal or slashed coat of velvet or satin ; velvet cap 
and plumes. (This, or any of the dresses in the play, can be 
varied to suit the taste of each performer.) This is a capital 
play for parlor theatricals. The ladies and gentlemen in 
attendance should be dressed in party style. 

Arabella and Josephine. Ball dress in the extreme of 
fashion; lace, flowers, feathers, flounces, furbelows, fans. They 
ought to be highly rouged, and hair powdered. 

The play of " Cinderella " (or rather the story) is an old 
one, and the characters, to make it more life-like, ought to be 
dressed as lords and ladies of the "olden time." 






BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 39 



BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 



CHARACTERS. 

Rudolph. 

Mundane, ) 

Elvira, > Daughters of Rudolph. 

Beauty, ) 

Queen of the Fairies. 

First Fairy. Fourth Fairy. 

Second Fairy. Fifth Fairy. 

Prince Carlos. 

Damon, a Servant. 



SCENE I. 



A Cottage furnished poorly. Enter Rudolph, holding in 
his hand an open letter. 

Rudolph. A letter from India! This is unexpected — 
imperative in its nature. There is no alternative. I must 
go. [Calls.] Elvira! Mundane! Beauty! Where are you ? 

Enter Elvira, Mundane, and Beauty. 

Elvira. O, papa! what has happened? 

Mundane. You frightened us out of our wits. 

Beauty. What is the matter, dear father? Has any 
calamity befallen you ? Tell us. 

Rudolph. Do not be alarmed, my children; nothing 
has occurred, except that I hold in my hand a letter from 
India, requiring my immediate attendance. 

Elvira {aside). I am glad of it; we can then be at 
liberty. 

Mundane (aside). What a God-send! 

Beauty. O, my father, we can not bear your long ab- 
sence. We will so miss your society. How long will you 
be absent ? 



40 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Rudolph. Three months at least. 

Beauty. So long, dear father? 

Rudolph. My daughter, you must not grieve. Our 
fortunes depend on this trip. If I am successful, we will 
be independent. The poverty that now haunts our door 
will be driven away forever. 

Elvira. If this be true, the sooner you start, dear father, 
the better. 

Mundane. Yes- — for I long to be rich. 

Beauty. I prefer your company, dear father, to all the 
wealth of the Indies. 

Enter Damon. 

Rudolph. How now, good Damon ? 

Beauty. 0, Damon, such dreadful news. [Covers her 
face with a handkerchiefs 

Damon. What 's in the wind ? 

Mundane. O, nothing but what will bring good fortune 
to us. Our papa has been called to leave home on a long 
journey. 

Elvlra. And when he returns we shall be rich. 

Damon. But where, dear master ? 

Rudolph. Across the high seas; and perhaps I may 
never return. 

Beauty. Do not say that, dear father. 

Damon. Kind Heaven forbid, my master. 

Rudolph. Cheer up, my children. If I succeed, I will 
bring to each of you a handsome present. Come, name 
what it shall be. 

Mundane. For me diamonds, and the richest velvet that 
can be bought. 

Elviea. And for me oriental pearls, and the rarest silks 
that the East affords. 

Rudolph. Has little Beauty nothing to ask? 

Beauty. I want your blessing before you go. 

Mundane (a s ide) . Th e lit tl e hyp o crit e ! 

Elviea (aside). I could choke her! 

Rudolph. Beauty, you must choose a gift from your 
father. 

Damon. O, yes, little Beaut}', choose something. 

Beauty. Well, then, father, bring me a rose, the fairest 
that blooms on Eastern soil. 



BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 41 

Mundane (disdairtfully). A rose! 

Elytra.- The simpleton ! 

Rudolph. Your wish shall be granted, my child, if it 
costs me a world of danger. But the vessel is ready to 
sail, and I must go. [To Beauty.] Go bring my cloak. 
[Exit Beauty. To Damon.] To your care. Damon. I leave 
my children. Guard them as you would a casket of jewels. 

Damon (bows). With my life, kind master. 

Enter Beauty: places the clonic ribout Rudolph's shoulders. 

Rudolph (embraces Ms children). Farewell! May Prov- 
idence protect you! [Starts.] Damon, remember your 
pledge. [Damon bows.] 

Mundane. Do not forget the diamonds, papa. 
Elytra. And my pearls and silk. papa. [Beauty falls 
upon a chair; weeps.] 
Damon. Alas, my good master. [Exit Rudolph. 

{Curtain falls.) 



SCENE EL 

Prince Carlos's Palace. The stage in this scene ought to oe 
tastefully decorated. In one rase a single rose blooming, 
placed in full sight of the audience. Rudolph reclines 
asleep upon a couch. Enter Fairies. 

First Fairy (approaches couch and look's at Rudolph). 
What means this \ A mortal ! 

Second Fairy. How came he here \ 

First Faiey. I know not. He has a clear conscience. 
else he would not sleep so soundly. 

Second Faiey. Does the Prince know that he has such 
a visitor \ 

First Faiey. I can not tell. It is a strange circumstance. 
Xo nmrral has crossed the threshold of these doors for 
years. 

Second Faiey. Here comes our Queen ; she Yrill explain. 

Enter Queen. 

First Faiey. Dear mother [points to Rudolph], tell us 
the meaning of this. 



42 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



Queen. It means much that is good to our Prince. It 
is the harbinger of his release. 
All. Indeed ! 
Queen. The stranger you behold has been upon a long, 
perilous journey, and is now returning to his family. Last 
night, when the storm raged so furiously, I led him by my 
power to seek shelter in the palace. Prince Carlos knows 
not that he is here, and will not, unless the stranger takes 
some unwonted liberty. Poor man, he was shipwrecked, 
and was cast by the waves upon the shore ; he became be- 
wildered in the forest, and when the storm arose would 
have perished but for my timely aid. I can divulge no 
more. Time will unfold all. The night is waning, chil- 
dren. The release of Prince Carlos is near at hand ; come 
let us have our nightly song, for morn will soon break upon 
mortals, and we must away to our elfin home. [Sings.] 
Come ! come ! come ! 
Off with care, 
Pleasure share ; 
Here we meet by pale moonlight. 
We belong 
To elfin throng, 
Where life is always bright. 
Fairies (pin in chorus). 

.It is the witching midnight hour, 
When fairies love to wield their power. 
O, 't is sweet, 
When fairies meet, 
Singing merrily, 
Tra, la, la, la, tra, la, la; Tra, la, la, la, tra, la, la. 
O, 't is sweet, 
When fairies meet, 
Singing merrily. 



Queen (sings). 



Come! come! come! 

Merrily, 

Full of glee, 
Now we meet to dance and play. 

Faces bright, 

Bosoms light, 
We gladly pass each day. 



BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 43 

Fairies (Join in chorus). 

It is the witching midnight hour, 

When fairies love to wield their power. 
0. 't is sweet. 

When fairies meet. 
Singing merrily. 

Tra. la. la. la, tra, la. la: Tra. la. la. la, tra. la. la. 
O. 'tis sweet, 
When fairies meet. 

Singing merrily. \JSkeeunt Fairies.] 

"Rudolph wakes; rises to a sitting posture; rubs his eyes; 
looks around.'] 

Rudolph. Did I not hear music I Where am I ': O. 
yes, now I remember. Last night, when the storm was at 
its height. I saw a glimmering light that led me to this en- 
chanted spot, for enchanted it must be. The doors opened 
to receive me, but not a living thing did I see. 'Rises ; 
walks to and fro.} One day more and I will be again with 
my children. The vessel was wrecked almost in sight of 
my cottage. I dread to meet my children, as my journey 
has been one of toil and failure. I will search this house 
and discover, if possible, to whom it belongs. 

[Exit Rudolph.] 
[The land should play until Rudolph returns. At the close 
of the air, enter Rudolph.] 
Rudolph. I have searched in vain. Tis strange, amid 
such luxury, there is no human creature to be seen. [Ap- 
proaches the vase containing the rose; breaks off the rose.] 
Beauty, at least, will be gratified. It was well her wish 
was one so humble. [A terrible noise heard outside. Ru- 
dolph looks around alarmed.] 

Enter Beast. 

Beast. Vile man! had you the audacity to break my 
rose, my favorite flower ! 

Rudolph (bows low). Pardon me if I have transgressed. 
It was the parting request of my youngest daughter that I 
should bring her a rose. I could find no one to ask. and 
thought it no harm to pluck a single flower. 

Beast (loudly). Silence, base man; your life shall pay 
the forfeit ! 



44 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Rudolph. I am a poor man. Think of my helpless, 
destitute children [kneels], and spare my life! 

Beast. Speak truly — are you very poor ? 

Rudolph. Alas! I am, and without my care my chil- 
dren would starve. Ah, Beauty! Beauty! little did you 
know the trouble your simple request would bring upon 
your father ! [ Covers Ms face with Ms hands.] 

Beast. Rise, and we will come to terms. I will spare 
your life, wretched man, upon one condition. 

Rudolph (rises). Name it. 

Beast. Do you see this palace ? Notwithstanding I have 
the form of a beast, all this wealth is mine. It is in my 
power to summon a band of soldiers and behead you in- 
stantly; but, hark! [tales Rudolph oy the arm,] I will re- 
lease you upon condition that you return to my palace 
and bring with you the favorite daughter you spoke of — 

AND HERE LET HER REMAIN. 

Rudolph {clasps his hands). O, Beauty, my child! 

Beast. Decide. If you refuse, you must die instantly ! 

Rudolph. I will return to my cottage and inform my 
daughter of what has occurred. If she consents to your 
terms, I will return and bring her. 

Beast. If she refuse, then return yourself, or else a worse 
fate than death awaits you. Remember, you are in my 
power completely. 

Rudolph. I obey. [Boies.] 

Beast. Take the rose ; it is a gift from Beast to Beauty. 

Rudolph. Your word is my law. [Bows.] 

{Curtain falls.) 



SCENE in. 

Rudolph's cottage. Elvira and Mundane seated listlessly. 
Beauty near a tcible reading. 

Mundane. It is time papa was returning. 

Beauty (looking up). He has been gone so long, and not 
one word have we heard from him. 

Elvira. I wish he would hasten and bring the riches 
he spoke of. It is so inconvenient to be poor. 



BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 45 

Mundane. It would be so charming to have our own 

carriage and servants; we would then have suitors. Men 
all like rich girls. 

Beauty. I would not many a man who sought me be- 
cause of my wealth. 

Elvira. Of course not. Miss Perfection. Ill tell you 
one thing, we will never get husbands while we remain 
poor. 

Beauty. I would want my husband to love me for my- 
self alone. 

Mundane, You are rather young, miss, to be thinking 
of marriage. It would be more becoming in you to wait 
until Elvira and myself are settled in life. But you have 
been told you are pretty until it has turned your head. 

Elvera. Yes ; but only wait until papa brings home the 
fortune, and we will make you remain in the background. 

Beauty. Our father said there was some doubt as to 
the result of his voyage. 

Elvera. 1 11 be bound, you would croak if this cottage 
were changed to gold. 

Beauty. Not so. sister. I wished to warn you not to be 
too sanguine. 

Elvera. Reserve your sermons for those who can appre- 
ciate them. [Looks toward entrance.] But. look! Here 
comes Damon with a box upon his shoulder that seems to 
be tilled with something heavy. What can it mean i 

Mundane (rises; looks out). He fairly bends under the 
weight. 

Enter Daveox with a box upon Ms shoulders ; deposits it on 
the floor. 

Damon (fans Ms face with his hat). Good new-! good 
news ! fair dames ! This box is laden with gold ! 

Elvira and Muxdaxe (excitedly). Gold. 1) a in on \ Gold! 

Damon. Yes: my master has returned, and bid me carry 
the treasure. But see. he comes: let the good man speak 
for himself. 

Beauty (springs forward). My father here \ 

Enter Rudolph. 
Beauty (embraces Rudolph; . My dear, dear father! 
Mundane (approaches Rudolph). Did you bring my 
diamonds, papa \ 



46 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Elvira. And tlic pearls and silk, papa ? 

Rudolph (to Beauty). Bring me a seat, dear Beauty, 
and I will tell you all. [Beauty hands a chair ; Rudolph 
sits down; they all gather about him.'] You know, my chil- 
dren, that I have been absent a long time. I made the 
voyage to India, but failed to procure the fortune we so 
much needed. 

Mundane. But the box, papa. Damon said the box 
was filled with gold. 

Rudolph. Patience, child, and I will explain. 

Elvira (aside). I want no explanation, so we get the 
gold. 

Rudolph. Last night, when the vessel in which I re- 
turned hove in sight of land, a tremendous storm arose — 
such a storm as I never want to witness again. Notwith- 
standing the united efforts of crew and passengers, our ship 
became a wreck. I seized a plank, and, after struggling 
manfully for some time, a friendly wave lifted me and 
landed me upon the beach. It was very dark when I came 
to my senses, and I found myself, as soon as I was able 
to stand, upon the borders of a dense forest. By the aid 
of the frequent flashes of lightning I discovered a foot- 
path ; this I followed for some time, and finally saw in the 
distance a glimmering light. As I approached nearer, I 
discovered the outline of a large building, which, after a 
difficult walk, I reached. It was a magnificent palace. 
The doors were open, and I entered, glad to find shelter 
from the storm. Every comfort that wealth can procure 
was before me. A tempting repast was spread upon a 
table in dishes of solid silver. But, amid all this luxury, 
not a living soul was visible. I satisfied the cravings of 
hunger, and, worn down by fatigue, fell asleep upon one 
of the couches in the apartment. This morning I was 
awakened by strains of delicious music. I looked around, 
but was alone. An inviting breakfast stood before me, and 
I ate as before. After the meal was concluded I determined 
to make a search for the inmates of this princely domain. 
I went from room to room, and the same elegance met me 
at every turn ; but no living thing met my view. Bewil- 
dered and disappointed, I returned to the apartment in 
which I had passed the previous night, to secure my cloak. 
As I turned to leave the room I cast my eyes around, and 



BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 47 

they rested upon this single rose [holds the rose in view], 
blooming in a vase. I thought of Beauty's request, and 
plucked the fatal flower. Xo sooner had I done so than 
the most awful sounds penetrated the apartment, and in 
another instant a hideous beast appeared before me : and 
with a loud voice exclaimed: "Yile man! had you the 
audacity to break my rose, my favorite flower!" I fell 
upon my knees and begged for pardon: also explained to 
the monster why I had transgressed. But I could not aj - 
pease his wrath. He declared mv life should pay the 
forfeit. 

Beauty. My poor father ! 

Mundane. Who was this beast \ 

Rudolph. I know not ; except that he informed me that 
the palace belonged to him. and that I was entirely in his 
power. I told him of my helpless children, and he then 
relented enough to say that he would spare my life on . 
condition ! 

All. What was that \ 

Rudolph. That I would return hnmediately to the 
palace, bringing with me my darling daughter. Beauty. 
and there let her remain ! 

Mundane. But the gold. 

Elvira. 0. yes. tell us of the gold. 

Rudolph. After I left the palace I was followed by a 
carrier, bearing this box of gold, with an imperative com- 
mand from the Beast to accept it. and if I refused to return 
and die. 

Beauty. And will my going to the palace save your 
life, dear father \ 

Rudolph. It will: but I ask no such sacrifice. I only 
returned to bid you farewell, and then return and meet my 
doom ! 

Beauty. Xever ! You shall not die ; for I will go im- 
mediately. 

Rudolph. I can not permit such a sacrifice. 

Mundane. Why not \ Let her go. 

Elvira. Yes. allow her to go. 

Mundane {aside). She is so pretty I want to be well rid 
of her. [To Rudolph.] Papa. Beauty would rather die 
than that you should be killed. 

Elvira. And her life is not worth much. 



48 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Rudolph. Unfeeling children — no ! Beauty shall not go ! 

Beauty. It is useless to remonstrate. If you will not 
go with me, dear father, I will go alone. Let us go to- 
gether and see this Beast; he may listen to my pleadings 
and spare you. 

Rudolph. By heaven, this is a bright thought! We 
will go, and perchance all may yet be well. [To Damon. ) 
Damon, remove this box to my apartment and keep it 
securely. [To Beauty.] Go! prepare for your journey. 
[Exit Beauty. To Mundane and Elvira.] Come to my 
room, for I have much to speak of before I go. 

[Exit Rudolph.] 

Mundane. Go, Damon, and carry the box to papa's 
room, and when he is gone we will examine its contents. 

Elvira. And help ourselves to a good share. 

Damon {shoulders oox). You'll never help yourselves 
while tins is under my charge. 

Elvira (mimics Damon). Yaw! yaw! yaw! we will see, 
Mr. Impudence! 

Damon. I will never see you open this box while it is 
in my possession. If I do my name is not Damon. 

[Exit Damon.] 

Mundane. We can drug him ! 

Elvira. Yes ; and we will. 

{Curtain falls.) 

SCENE rv. 
The Palace. Enter Rudolph and Beauty. 

Beauty. What a delightful place! There is nothing 
terrible in coming here, dear father. 

Rudolph. There is nothing in it to charm me. I would 
not give you, Beauty, for all the palaces on earth. [Noise 
heard outside.'] 

Enter Beast. Beauty starts ; draws near Rudolph. 

Beast. You have redeemed your pledge, I see. 

Rudolph. Yes ; this is my daughter, Beauty. [Presents 
Beauty.] 

Beast. Welcome, sweet lady; my palace is at your com- 
mand. 



BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 49 

Beauty. Thank you. kind sir. I came to beg you to 

spare the life of my father. 

Beast. He knows the conditions. Are you willing, 
Beauty, to remain with me \ 

Beauty. If it will save my father's life. 

Beast. Was it your wish to come ? 

Beauty. Yes. as I said, if it will saYe his life. 

Beast (to Rudolph). You have heard her decision. 

Rudolph. Will nothing less satisfy you \ 

Beast. Nothing. 

Rudolph. Then I will die ! 

Beauty. No, my father ; you shall not die ! I will 
remain. 

Beast. You are a noble girl, Beauty. [To Rudolph." 
Come, take your last farewell. Your daughter is willing to 
die for you. I will return when you are gone. 

"Exit Beast." 

Rudolph. 0. Beauty, why did you come \ I can not 
leave you with this horrid monster. 

Beauty. I do not fear him. Come, cheer up. and tell 
your little Beauty good-by. 

Rudolph. Go home, my child, and let me die. I can 
not leave you thus ! 

Beauty. Do not grieve, my father. I will treat the 
Beast so kindly that he can not find it in his heart to kill 
me. [Noise heard without J\ It is the monster retuiTiing! 
Go, dear father, go ! Do not make him angry, lest he slay 
us both. Farewell ! Tliink often of me, will you. father : 
[Embraces Rudolph.] There, go. ■ I hear his footsteeps! 
[Exit Rudolph weeping. Beauty falls upon a couch ; covers 
7ier face witJi her hands? My father! O, my father! 

(Curtain falls.) 



SCENE Y. 

The Palace. The stage in this scene should oe oeautifuUy 
decorated. Beauty seated; near her a guitar, books, 
sheets of music, flowers, etc.. etc. 

Beauty Two months since I came to this palace, and it 
seems onlv a few days. Instead of beino; murdered, as I 



I 



50 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

expected, I have been basking in luxury. Strange, too, 
my heart yearns to the Beast as it never did to mortal before. 
For all he is so hideous in form, there is a charm about him 
that draws me nearer to him every day. How can a mind 
so cultivated and refined be encased in such a shape ! I do 
not love him ; O, no ! I could not love a beast. And yet 
when he is absent I am sad. Heigho! I am not in love. 
[Noise heard without.] He is coming. 

Enter Beast. 

Beast {sits oesicle Beauty). Alone, my little Beauty? 

Beauty. And wishing for your presence, Beast. 

Beast. Ah ! this is flattery. Could I dare to hope that 
you cared for me ? 

Beauty. You know, Beast, I do care for you. 

Beast. E"ot enough, Beauty ! not enough ! 

Beauty. What more can you wish ? 

Beast. Do not be angry, Beauty ; I wish for much more. 
I want you to be my wife. 

Beauty {starts). Tour wife? the wife of a oeastf 

Beast. Yes. For though I am a beast, I have a heart 
filled with devotion for you. O, say, Beauty, that you will 
pity me and be my wife. 

Beauty. It can not be. How could I wed a beast ? 

Beast. I was a fool, mad, to ask it. But, O, my little 
Beauty, if you knew how much I love you ! how your pres- 
ence is my life ! I could not exist if it were not for you. . 
[Beauty sighs.] Do not spurn me. If you were to leave 
me I should perish. 

Beauty. You could spare me a little while. 

Beast. No, no ! not an hour ! 

Beauty. But, Beast, I must see my father. I have been 
separated from him two months, and if I do not see him I 
will die, and then you will have to do without me. 

Beast. I can not let you leave me. 

Beauty. Just for one week! I will return. [Kneels; 
looks imploringly at Beast.] Just one short week! 

Beast. Kise, Beauty; I can not resist such pleading. 
But, O, promise me that you will return ! Do not deceive me ! 

Beauty. I could not deceive one who has been so kind 
to me. But you hold the power to keep me here. I can 
never find my old home unless you guide me. 



BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 51 

Beast (hands Beauty a ring). Place this ring upon your 
ringer when you retire to -night, and you wake on the mor- 
row in the cottage. When you wish to return, place it 
under your pillow when you go to bed at night, and you 
will return to me. 

Beauty O, what a dear, delightful Beast! [Rises; puts 
her hand on Beast's shoulder.'] If you were not so ugly I 
would be your wife. How can I repay such kindness ? 

Beast. All, Beauty, how your words tear my heart ! 

Beauty May angels guard you in my absence. [Beast 
weeps.'] 

Beauty {aside). Strange that a least can weep! [To 
Beast.] I can not bear to see you grieve. Take my hand, 
and let us walk. The fresh air will revive you. 

Beast {takes Beauty's hand; rises). Do as you will. I 
am your slave. [They start to go.] 

{Curtain falls.') 

SCENE VI: 

The Palace. Beast asleep upon a couch. Enter Fairies and 
surround him, with faces to audience. 

First Fairy. Our Prince is sleeping, dear mother. 

Queen. He sleeps, 'tis true, but he suffers. Alas! I 
thought his deliverance was near. But if Beauty returns 
not soon, he will expire. 

Second Fairy. What ails him ? 

Queen. His heart is well-nigh broken. He is grieving 
for the absent one. I have waited for the last two nights 
for Beauty to place the ring under her pillow, but she has 
failed to do so. 

First Fairy. What- can be the cause ? 

Queen. Her malicious sisters. When Beauty returned 
to her old home they envied her happiness, and coveted her 
rich clothing and jewels, and they are using wicked arts to 
prevent her return. 

Second Fairy. But why is it their wish to detain her ? 

Queen. They know Beauty pledged her word to our 
Prince to return in one week, and by a foul device they 
have detained her now ten days. It is jealousy and envy 



OZ ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

that prompts tlicm. They can not bear to see Beauty living 
in splendor, and wish to incense the Prince, and thereby 
cause him to destroy her. I have sent two vigilant fairies 
to watch by Beauty's bedside to-night. Their influence may 
warn her of the danger of our Prince. But, see! he is 
growing restless. [Beast groans.] Soothe him by your 
nightly song. [Fairies sing. As the song closes they retire.] 

Enter Beauty. Advances to front of stage. 

Beauty {puts her hand to her forehead). Last night I 
had such a frightful dream ! I thought I saw Beast in the 
agonies of death. I did not know till then how much I 
loved him. Why did I stay away ? Why did I allow Mun- 
dane and Elvira to persuade me to remain? Where can 
Beast be ? I have looked in his apartment, and the bed is 
untouched. O, my benefactor! my friend! I can never 
forgive myself ! 

Beast. Beauty, my little Beauty ! 

Beauty {turns, discovers Beast, approaches the couch, falls 
on her hiees beside him). My noble Beast, are you indeed 
alive? 

Beast. Ah, Beauty, you have forsaken your poor Beast ! 
You no longer love me. 

Beauty. Do not say so. I am here to lay my life at 
your feet. 

Beast. You promised to return in one week. 

Beauty. I know I did; but my sisters induced me to 
remain. Do not drive me from you, dear Beast. Do not 
spurn your little Beauty. [ Weeps.] 

Beast. But you will not be my wife. 

Beauty. I will! I will! You shall be my noble hus- 
band, and I your happy wife. 

Beast. You forget I am a beast. 

Beauty. I care not for your f orni. Your heart is right. 
You are all the world to me, and I will be your wife. Will 
you, can you refuse your little Beauty ? [Beast rises, drops 
the covering of the Beast, appears as a Prince.] 

Beauty {rises, starts with amazement). How is this, my 
lord ? Where is the Beast ? 

Prince. Beauty, you are my guardian angel. {Takes 
her hand,, leads her to front of stage.] You see in me a 
wretch, who was doomed, years ago, by a wicked fairy, to 



BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. Oo 

keep the form of a beast until some lady would consent to 
marry me. You have promised to be my wife, and this 
breaks the charm. You love me for myself. I can never 
reward you sufficiently, as you have made me the happiest 
prince alive. 

Enter Fairies. 

Queen {joins the hands of Prince and Beauty). Beauty. 
you have acted wisely. A good heart is of more value than 
external beauty. You love this man for his noble qualities, 
and not because he is rich in worldly goods. He loves you 
for your sincerity, purity, and devotion. May the blessings 
of heaven smile upon your union ! 

( Curtain falls.) 



COSTUMES. 

Eudolph. Cottager's dress. 

Damon. Servant's dress (of olden time). 

Elvira and Mundane. Home dresses, of faded, tawdry 
material. 

Beauty. Neat home dress in first and second scenes. In 
all the scenes at the palace Beauty should be attired as a 
princess. 

Prince Carlos. In the first scenes he appears in a beast's 
skin. This dress is more easily procured than one would sup- 
pose, as in these modern times there are so many varieties of 
shaggy looking cloth that a beast's head can be easily formed. 
And this kind of cloth is not so oppressive as the real skin of 
an animal. (Astrakhan cloth is a good substitute.) In the 
last scene the Prince should be dressed in royal style : a velvet 
or satin suit, slashed with gold lace ; a cap with plumes. 

Fairies. Dresses of light tulle or tarlatan, spangled pro- 
fusely; crowns of brilliants. The Queen ought to have a 
richer crown than the lesser Fairies, and also bear a wand in 
her hand. 



54 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



THE TATTLER. 

DRAMATIZED FROM A STORY THAT APPEARED IN 
T. S. ARTHUR'S POPULAR MAGAZINE IN 1863. 



CHARACTERS. 

Mr. Pendekgrass. 

Mrs. Pendekgrass. 

Mrs. Johnson. 

Miss Perkins, the Tattler. 



SCENE I. 



Boom. Mrs. Pendergrass and Miss Perkins seated near 
the front of the stage. 

Mrs. Pendergrass. If Ruthy Ann Johnson said that, 
she is no lady. 

Miss Perkins. Well, she did say it, and more too. 

Mrs. Pendergrass. Did she say that my Hester was ugly 
as sin? 

Miss Perkins. Yes, she did ; and a great deal more. 

Mrs. Pendergrass. What else did she say, Miss Perkins ? 

Miss Perkins. She said Hester was as ugly as sin, and 
she could make a better face out of dough. 

Mrs. Pendergrass (rises and walks to and fro excitedly). 
Very well, Mrs. Ruthy Ann Johnson! very well, madam! 
very kind talk for a neighbor. 

Miss Perkins. I would n't get excited. She said a great 
deal more about me, but I just let it pass. [Looks indif- 
ferent.'] 

Mrs. Pendergrass. Pass, indeed ! You are not spunky, 
like I am. A better face out of dough ! Give me patience ! 
But, never mind, I'll have it out of her; see if I don't. 

Miss Perkins. Ruthy Ann likes to talk. She is a little 
glib with the tongue, and is always talking about some- 



THE TATTLER. DO 



body. She thinks it is smart. You know she said Phebe 

Jenkins's face had no more expression than a turnip. I 
guess she did not mean any harm about what she said of 
Hester. 

Mrs. Pendergrass. I don't care what she meant. I'll 
tell her this much : she has got to keep her glib tongue off 
of me and mine. Hester is as good-looking as any of her 
brats. [Enter Mr. Pendergrass.] Law! Mr. Pendergrass, 
what do you think 2 Ruthy Ann Johnson has been slander- 
ing our Hester S 

Mr. Pendergrass. Indeed ! what has she said ? 

Mrs. Pendergrass. Why, she told Miss Perkins, there, 
that Hester is as ugly as sin 1 

Mr. Pendergrass. Well, that is no slander. I never 
thought Hester much of a beauty: bift she is a good girl. 
Trhieh is better than all. As to her being ugh" as sin. that 
is a mere extravagance of expression sometimes indulged in 
by thoughtless people like Mrs. Johnson. It amounts to 
nothing. Let it pass as an idle wind. 

Mrs. Pexderorass. Indeed. I won't let it pass. Xo- 
body has a right to talk so about my Hester, and I intend 
to give Ruthy Ann Johnson a piece of my mind ! 

Mr. Pexdergrass. You had better not. Maria : no good 
will come of it. You Trill only make an enemy of her. 

Mrs. Pexdergrass. I do n't care : I would rather have 
such a woman for my enemy than my friend. 

Mr. Pexdergrass. Never make an enemy. Maria. En- 
emies are always dangerous. 

Mrs. Pexdergrass. It is no use talking to me. Pender- 
grass ; you never did have any spunk. 

Mr. Pex~dergrass. I always had spunk enough to main- 
tain my dignity ; and. if I were you. I would not condescend 
to notice any thing Mrs. Johnson has said. 

Mrs. Pexderg-eass. Well, Pendergrass. you needn't think 
I am going to let such a woman as Ruthy Ann Johnson talk 
about me with impunity. •■Dough face." indeed! 

[Exit Mrs. Pexdee grass and Miss Perkixs.] 

Mr. Pexdergrass. I see it is useless for me to say any 
thing more. Where a woman sets her head, all creation can 
not turn her. 



(Curtain falls.) 



56 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



SCENE II. 

A different room. Mrs. Johnson seated at work. Enter 
Mrs. Pendergrass. 

Mrs. Johnson {rises from her seat). Good morning, Maria ; 
I am glad to see you. 

Mrs. Pendergrass. No you ain't ! 

Mrs. Johnson. What is the matter ? what do you mean ? 

Mrs. Pendergrass. Just what I say. You are not glad 
to see me ; you are a mean hypocrite ! 

Mrs. Johnson. Let me be what I am, no lady would use 
such language in the house of a neighbor. 

Mrs. Pendergrass. You are no lady; you are a mean 
hypocrite. 

Mrs. Johnson. Maria Pendergrass, I do not understand 
your conduct, and I will not listen to any such insulting 
language in my own house. 

Mrs. Pendergrass. Yes, you will ; for I told Pendergrass 
this very morning that I intended to give you a piece of 
my mind. 

Mrs. Johnson. You had better not give me too large a 
piece, or you will not have any left. [Smiles.] 

Mrs. Pendergrass. Ruthy Ann Johnson ! you shall not 
stand there poking fun at me. You are a low-flung hypo- 
crite, and I despise you ! 

Mrs. Johnson. Maria ! your passion has gotten the better 
of your judgment, and I advise you to go home, and stay 
there till you can talk like a reasonable woman. 

Mrs. Pendergrass. O, yes ! this is mighty fine talk ; but 
I'll show you, you mean hypocrite. Ill throw rocks and 
break your windows ! and I '11 kill your pet lamb ! and 1 11 
trample down your flower-beds ! I '11 — I '11 have my revenge ! 

Mrs. Johnson {approaches Mrs. Pendergrass). Maria 
Pendergrass, you've got to leave my house, and I never 
want you to come in it again till you can act like a decent 
woman. There is the door! [points,'] and the sooner you 
leave the better ! 

Mrs. Pendergrass. O, yes ! I understand ! You are a 
mean, cowardly hypocrite, and can't look me straight in the 
face. To be sure I can go home, and I can stay there ; but 



THE TATTLER. 57 



I '11 have my revenge — see if I don't ! [Recedes as she talks,] 
[Exit Mrs. Penderorass. Mrs. Johnson looks after her in 
surprise.] 

Mrs. Johnson. What in the name of wonder lias come 
over Maria \ I believe she is going crazy ! What can it all 
mean \ But I see Miss Perkins coming, and maybe she can 
throw some light on the matter. She always knows every 
thing about every body. I'll pump her. 

Ei iter Miss Perkins. 

Miss Perkins. Good morning. Mrs. Johnson. 

Mrs. Johnson. Good morning — you are the very person 
I want to see ! Have a seat. [Hands chair. They doth sit- 
down.] 

Miss Perkins. Indeed ! 

Mrs. Johnson. Yes ; I want to ask you when you saw 
Maria Pendergrass \ 

Miss Perkins. Well, let me think. [Studies.] It has 
been three or four days since I was there. 0, yes — now I 
remember — it was last Tuesday. 

Mrs. Johnson. You have n't seen her since ? 

Miss Perkins. Xot since. It is a little curious I have n't 
heard of her being out : and that is strange, for you know 
she is always on the pad. 

Mrs. Johnson. Maybe she is sick. 

Miss Perkins. Should n't wonder, for I do n't know what 
else would keep her in : you know she is such a gad-about. 
By the way. do you remember the funny speech you made 
about her Hester once ? 

Mrs. Johnson. No ! What was it ? 

Miss Perkins. 0, 1 've laughed about it a hundred times. 
It was so funny and still so true ! [Laughs.] For you know 
Hester is as ugly as mud. 

Mrs. Johnson. She is not handsome, but you know she 
is good, and that is better than beauty. 

Miss Perkins. Just what you said afterward to take the 
edge off your funny speech ! 

Mrs. Johnson. What did I say ? • I have forgotten. 

Miss Perkins. You said you could make a better face 
out of dough ! 

Mrs. Johnson. It was thoughtless and unkind in me to 
say it, and by no means expressed my true feelings to the 



58 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

child, for I really love Hester. But ludicrous ideas often 
present themselves to my mind, and I have a bad habit of 
speaking- from impulse, when it were better to be silent. 

Miss Perkins. Somebody who heard you say this was 
kind enough to tell Mrs. Pendergrass. 

Mrs. Johnson. O, no — surely no ! 

Miss Perkins. It is true, and she is as mad as she can be 
about it. 

Mrs. Johnson. I do not wonder. It was thoughtless in 
me to make such a speech, but it 'was more wicked in the 
one who repeated it. 

Miss Perkins. Yes, there are always mischief-makers 
enough to repeat these little things. It was not only wicked, 
but very malicious. [Nods her head with energy.] 

Mrs. Johnson. I wonder who could have been so unprin- 
cipled ! 

Miss Perkins. Really, I can't tell. 

Mrs. Johnson. Well, I'll go and see Maria and tell her 
exactly how it was. She shall know the truth. 

Miss Perkins. O, don't — indeed I wouldn't. 

Mrs. Johnson. I will go, and you must go with me. 

Miss Perklns (surprised). What! me? 

Mrs. Johnson, Yes, you shall go with me; for Maria 
will want to know who told me. 

Miss Perkins. Indeed you must excuse me. 

Mrs. Johnson. I shall not excuse you. Come, I '11 get 
my bonnet. [Exit Mrs. Johnson.] 

Miss Perkins. Now, have n't I got myself in a mess ! 
Such a rippet as these two women will have; for Maria 
Pendergrass is just like a match, ready to blaze at the first 
touch, and Ruthy Ann has a temper of her own. But my 
wits never forsook me yet. I can lie out of it. 

{Curtain falls.) 

SCENE III. 

Mrs. Pendergrass alone. 

Mrs. Pendergrass. What a fool I have made of myself ! 
What must Ruthy Ann Johnson think of me? She will 
tell her husband, of course, and he is a fiery, hot-headed 



THE TATTLER. 59 



little whiffet, and will be after Mr. Pendergrass for expla- 
nations ! I am so mad with myself. Why did n't I talk to 
her right, I had it all laid off. every word in its place. 
I am a fool! I wish Miss Perkins had staid home and 
minded her own business. But. law! [Loolcs toward the 
door.] Who is that coming this way i Ruthy Ann John- 
son and Miss Perkins, as I live ! 

Enter Mrs. Johnson and Miss Perkins. 

Mrs. Johnson. How d* ye do. Maria ? 

Mrs. Pendergrass. Very well, thank you. Have seats. 
[Hands chairs.] 

Mrs. Johnson. No, Maria ; I came to ask you a candid 
question. Will you give me a candid answer ? 

Mrs. Pendergrass. I will. 

Mrs. Johnson. Who told you that I spoke unkindly of 
your daughter ? 

Mrs. Pendergrass. Why, Miss Perkins. [Points to Miss 

PeRKTNS.] 

Miss Perkins. O, no ! you are mistaken ; it was not me. 
You "ve forgotten, Mrs. Pendergrass. 

Mrs. Pendergrass. Not at all. My memory is very clear 
on the subject. You are my informant, and no one else. 

Mrs. Johnson. What did she say. Maria ? 

Mrs. Pendergrass. That you said my Hester was ugly 
as sin. 

Miss Perkins. I never used such language, nor any 
thing like it. [Indignantly.] 

Mrs. Pendergrass. You did. And more than that, you 
said you could make a better face than Hesters out of 
dough. 

Mrs. Johnson. Maria, I did utter this thoughtless speech, 
and was sorry for it as soon as I said it, and I said directly 
afterward that Hester was good, and that was better than 
beauty. Did you tell this ? [Turns to Miss Perkins.] 

Mrs. Pendergrass. Xo, Puthy Ann, she did not, evil- 
minded mischief-maker that she is. 

Mrs. Johnson. Maria, forgive my foolish speech ; there 
was no real meaning in it, and would have done no real 
harm if there had been no evil tongue to bear it to your 
ears. 

Mrs. Pendergrass. And pray, Ruthy Ann, forgive my 



60 



ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



hasty words, uttered in blind passion. I have been suffi- 
ciently punished. 

Mrs. Johnson. And so have I. As to your Hester, I 
have always liked her. Miss Perkins has heard me say 
many a time that I wished my daughter was as thoughtful 
of me as Hester is of you; and, as to beauty, I do not think 
there is any thing to brag about on either side of the house. 
My daughter is plain as a pipe-stem, and if you could n't 
make as good a face out of putty, I would not give much 
for your skill. 

Mrs. Pendergrass (turns to Miss Perkins). And now, 
my lady, I have a rod in pickle for you. You low, mean, 
tattling — 

Mrs. Johnson (takes Mrs. Pendergrass by the arm). 
Maria ! Maria ! do not waste words upon her ; she is not 
worth a decent woman's indignation. 

Mrs. Pendergrass. Thank you, Euthy, for the timely 
w r ords. You are right; but I must say this. [Looks at Miss 
Perkins.] You have darkened my door once too often. 

Miss Perkins (tosses lier head defiantly). Humph! there 
are plenty of people in the world besides you and Ruthy 
Ann Johnson. [Exit hurriedly.'] 

Mrs. Pendergrass (looks after her). The sneaking hypo- 
crite ! 

Mrs. Johnson. I would have liked her more if she had 
shown fire and fight ; but tattlers are always cow^ards. And 
now, Maria, if you hear any more of my foolish speeches, 
come to me in frankness, and not as you did. 

Mrs. Pendergrass. You need not fear. I will never 
make a fool of myself again. By the memory of this we 
will be better friends. 

Enter Mr. Pendergrass. 

Mr. Pendergrass. Good morning, ladies! I see by 
your countenances that you have made up your little diffi- 
culty, and I am glad of it, for I despise women's quarrels. 

Mrs. Pendergrass. O, yes ; w T e are good friends once 
more. 

Mrs. Johnson. And never would have been enemies but 
for that tattling Miss Perkins. 

Mr. Pendergrass. Many friends have been made ene- 
mies before you by careless w T ords innocently spoken. 



THE TATTLER. 61 



[Turns to the audience.'] It is the tattler who is the social 
criminal. Her offense is capital, and she ought to be hung 
without judge or jury. 

Curtain falls.) 

[The characters in the above play should speak slowly and 

distinctly.'] 



COSTUMES. 



The dresses in this play are plain home dresses, suitable for 
the age of the character personated. 



62 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



THE AUNT'S LEGACY. 

A PLAY FOR LITTLE GIRLS. 



CHARACTERS. 

Louise, ) 

Annie, > Sisters. 

LULY, ) 

Kate, an Orphan and Cousin to the three sisters. 
Old Woman, Fortune-teller. 



SCENE I. 



A room neatly furnished. Annie seated near a small taole 
sewing. Louise standing before cc mirror arranging her 

hair. 

Louise (throwing down the hair orush impatiently, ap- 
proaches Annie). O, Annie! put down that everlasting 
sewing and join me in some amusement. 

Annie. No, no, Louise. Pa says he wants to see us 
work in the morning and play in the evening. 

Louise. Pshaw ! That is one of pa's odd notions ; he is 
so curious. 

Annie. I do not think so. 

Louise. I do. This thing of work in the morning and 
play in the evening is all nonsense. 

Annie. If you do not want to work, there is the piano. 
Why do n't you practice ? 

Louise, I despise the piano. 

Annie. Well, there is the library ; you can read. 

Louise (contemptuously). Read! There is nothing in 
the library but rusty old law books and dry histories, and 
who wants to read such stuff? 



the aunt's legacy. 63 

Axxie. O, Louise, I am afraid you will always make 
yourself miserable. 

Louise. Indeed, Miss Propriety ! 

Axxie. No one can be happy unless they are useful. 

Louise. You are such a little pharisee. Do n't you know 
that our aunt, who lives in New York, is going to leave me 
a fortune. 

Axxie. I have heard of it. But money will not make 
you happy, unless you are good. 

Louise. I know money will make me happy. Just wait 
till I get that fortune ! I'll ride in a tine carriage, and I '11 
go to dancing school, and I '11 have a set of diamonds, and 
I'll— 

Enter Kate and Luly. 

Kate. O. girls, there is a beggar at the gate ! 

Luly. And she is dressed so funny ! 

Kate. And she wants to come in. 

Louise. She shall not come in here. 

Axxie {rises from Tier chair). Yes, she shall come in. for 
pa says we must always be kind to the poor. 

Louise. Never mind; when I get my fortune I'll let 
you see if beggars come in my house. 

Kate. Your fortune ! 

Louise, Yes: my fortune! My aunt is going to make 
me rich because I am her namesake. 

Luly. O, mercy! 

Kate. I think I see you with a fortune now ! 

Louise. Silence, miss ! You are nothing but a poor, de- 
pendent orphan, and have no right to express your ornniou. 

Axxie. Shame, Louise! [Turns to Kate and Luly.] 
Go bring the old beggar in. [Exit Kate and Luly.] 

Louise. Ridiculous ! The idea of bringing in our house 
every rag-tag that comes along. 

Axxie. You are unfeeling ! 

Louise. No, I am not ; but I despise poor people. 

Axxie. How can you talk so? [Turns to the door.] But 
here they come ; pray. Louise, do not hurt the old woman's 
feelings. 

Enter Old YToman, Kate, and Luly. 

Axxie. Have a seat, good woman. [Hands chair.] Are 
vou tired ? 



64 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Old Woman. Yes, lady ; I have traveled a long way. 

Annie. Are you hungry? 

Old Woman. No, lady ; but I would like a drink of water. 

Annie (to Ltjly). Go bring some water. [Exit Ltjly. 
To Old Woman.] You look feeble. How old are you ? 

Old Woman. I can not tell. 

Louise. No wonder; you look like you come out of 
Noah's ark. 

Enter Ltjly. Hands Old Woman water. 

Louise. Why did n't you make one of the servants do 
that? 

Ltjly. Because I 'm not like you ; too lazy to wait on 
other people. 

Louise. You are a jewel ! 

Old Woman. Are you all sisters, young ladies ? 

Annie. All but Kate ; she is our cousin. 

Louise. It is none of your business. 

Old Woman. Are you rich, young lady ? 

Louise. No — but I will be. 

Old Woman. Do you know I am a fortune-teller ? 

All. Indeed ! 

Louise. Do you tell fortunes with coffee-grounds or 
with cards ? 

Old Woman. Neither. I tell by looking in the palm of 
the hand. 

Annie (reaches out Tier hand). Do tell mine. 

Old Woman (takes Annie's hand ; looks in it). Yours is 
a bright fortune, lady. You will be very rich, and very 
happy, too, because you love to make others happy. [Lets 
fall the hand.] 

Kate. I thought it was Louise that is to be rich. 

Louise. Who made you so wise? [Gives her hand to 
the Old Woman.] Now tell mine! 

[Old Woman holds Louise's hand and shakes her head sor- 
roicfully.] 

Louise. What now ? Do you see any thing so dreadful 
in my hand ? 

Old Woman. I see sorrow and disappointment! You 
will be covered with grief before another week ! 

Louise. I will be covered with money, you mean ; for I 
am to get a great fortune. 



the aunt's legacy. 65 

Old Woman. It is no such tiling ! 

Louise. You are wonderful wise: but I'll see if you 

are not put out of this house. Madame Impudence ! 

Anote. Come, my good woman, and I will show you 
where you may lie down and rest, 

Old Woman. Thank you, lady. [Turns to Louise as 
she rises A I pray you be less selfish and conquer that 
dreadful temper. 

Louise (approaches Old Woman). The sooner you get 
out of this room the better, [Pushes Old Woman ly the 
shoulder.] 

{Curtain falls.) 



SCENE II. 
Kate and Luly seated. Old Woman 'reclining on a sofa. 

Luly. I would like to see that rich aunt of ours ; won- 
der what she looks like I 

Kate. Goodness knows. I never saw any body as rich 
as she is. 

Luly. I don't believe she would give the fortune to 
Louise if she knew how ill-natured she is. 

Kate. I hope you will not tell her. 

LuiiY. Of course not. 

Kate. I wonder what Louise will do with the money ? 

Luly. She will hold on to it like wax ; for she is too 
stingy to give a cent away. 

Kate. I must ring the bell for the servants. It is time 
for us to dress. [Rings bell.} 

Enter Susan and Mary. 

Luly (rises). We want you to stay here and take care 
of this old woman while we dress to receive our rich aunt. 

Susan and Mary. Yes ma' in. 

Kate. And take good care of her, for we must not let 
the poor suffer if the rich are in the house. 

Old Woman. Who taught you to be so thoughtful 
about poor people ? 

Luly. Sister Annie. Ever since our mother died she 
makes us say our prayers and behave properly. 



66 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Old Woman. Does not your sister Louise teaeli you, 
too? 

Kate. Louise ! 

Luly. It would look funny to see Louise teach any body 
to be good. 

Susan. Miss Louise had better learn to be good herself 
before she teaches other people ! 

Kate. Well, don't express your opinion till it is asked. 

Mary. If she kicked and cuffed you about like she does 
us, 111 be bound you'd speak. 

Luly. Well, she is going to be rich soon, and then she 
will always be in a good humor. 

Susan. All the money in the world won't make people 
good, if they are not so naturally. 

Mary. That's a fact! You can't pull silk out of a sow's 
ear, nor squeeze blood out of a turnip. 

{Curtain falls.) 



SCENE HI. 

Room in confusion. Enter Susan and Mary, with brooms \ 

nana. 

Mary. I never saw such a house as this is in all my life ; 
every thing is turned up -side down. 

Susan. It 's all the fault of that sloven, Miss Louise. She • 
never puts any thing to rights. 

Mary. I don't know what that aunt of hers is going to 
leave her a fortune for. 

Susan. She had a sight better give it to Miss Annie, for 
Miss Louise has got the big-head so bad now that if she gets 
a fortune I 'in afraid her head will burst. 

Mary. I do despise Miss Louise. 

Susan. I do, too; but maybe, when she grows older, 
she '11 grow better. 

Mary. Yes, in a horn ; when she gets to be good, ducks 
will fly with their backs down. 

Susan Hush, for goodness' sake! She is coming — I 
see her. [Susan and Mary ousy themselves cleaning the 
room.] 



Enter Louise. 

Louise. Mercy on me — you two lazy things! haven't 
cleaned this room yet ! 

Mary. We are cleaning it fast as we can. 

Louise. My aunt will be here this very night. 

Susan. How do you know ? 

Louise. Pa got a dispatch, and she will be here in an 
hour. 

Mary (to Susan). Gal! we had better hurry. 

Louise. You had that — get out of my way! [Pushes 
them aside.] I must fix up and look as pretty as I can. 
[Goes to the mirror.'] I am determined to make a scene 
when my aunt comes. I am going to cry, and laugh, and 
hug her, and kiss her, and make her think I love her better 
than sugar ! 

Mary (aside). You'll never look pretty. 

Susan. O, look ! here come the other girls. [Looks to- 
ward the door.] 

Mary. And the old woman, as I live ! 

Enter all. 

Louise (turns to Old Woman). What are you doing here, 
you old trap ? Nobody wants you to be prying into family 
affairs ! 

Annee. O, Louise, let the old woman alone. We came 
to tell you that our aunt will be here in a few minutes. 

Louise. Well. Miss Wisdom, I knew that before. Do n't 
you see I am fixing to meet her. I'll make her think I'm 
an angel till I get her nioney, and then she may go to Guinea 
for all I care ! 

Axxie. Do n't you love her for any thing but her money ? 

Louise. 0, you are so green ! 

Axxie. I love her, although I have never seen her, be- 
cause she is our dear dead mother's sister. 

Louise. You are so sanctified. I don't care a button 
for old aunty, if she will just give me her money. I intend 
to honey her up and make her think I lore her, and she will 
never know the difference. [Old Woman throws off her cloak 
and hood, and comes forward,.] 

Old Woman. Poor, mistaken girl ! I am your aunt. I 
am sorry for your terrible disappointment. I took the garb 



68 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

of a beggar to test the disposition of my nieces, and I find 
that you are selfish and vain and wicked, while Annie is all 
that is good, gentle, and kind. Therefore, instead of giv- 
ing you the fortune, I will give it to Annie, except one 
thousand dollars I reserve for Kate, who is a poor, depend- 
ent orphan. [Mary and Susan clap their hands and jump 
with glee J] 

Both. O, I am so glad! I am so glad! [Louise comes 
forward and kneels before Old Woman.] 

Louise. O, aunt, forgive me for being so wicked. 

Annie. Give the fortune to Louise. She will he so un- 
happy. 

Kate (comes forward). My dear madam, I wish you to 
give the money you intend for me to Louise. I am sure she 
will never be selfish and ill-natured again. 

Old Woman. No, my children, I shall not give Louise 
one cent ! Her punishment is just, and I hope it may be 
the means of making her a better woman. You will all 
learn from her example that, as Solomon says, [turns to 
audience,'] "A good name is rather to be chosen than great 
riches, and loving favor better than silver and gold." 

(Curtain falls.) 

[The attitudes in this last scene should be well studied, so as 
to form an interesting tableau as the curtain falls.] 



COSTUMES. 



SCENE I. 

Annie. Dress of checked gingham, white collar and cuffs. 
Hair plain. 

Louise. Dress of gay-colored de laine, white collar and 
eirffs. Hair plain. 

Kate and Luly. Plain home dresses. 

Old Woman. A "black dress, over which is thrown a short 
cloak, in gypsy style; an old bonnet; a staff in her hand. 

scene ii. 
The same as the first scene. 



THE AUNT'S LEGACY. G9 



SCENE III. 

Louise. Dress of white tarlatan, suitably trimmed for a 
girl of fourteen. 

Annie. A light silk or poplin, with the proper embellish- 
ments for a girl of sixteen. 

Old Woman. Throws off her cloak, and appears in a neat 
black silk ; a becoming dress-cap upon her head. 

Susan and Mary. Dressed as house-maids 



70 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



PREPOSITION vs. PROPOSITION. 



CHARACTERS. 

Anabel Shelby, Cousin to Mary. 
Mary Obannon, [ Sit 
Agnes Obannon, \ *> me7S - 
James Compton. 
Servant. 



SCENE I. 
Boom in home style. Anabel and Mary seated, dressed neatly. 

Mary. What is the reason, cousin, that you will not 
marry James Compton ? He is rich and handsome, and I 
know he loves you. 

Anabel. Mary, we have always been friends, and you 
are entitled to my confidence ; yet yon will laugh when I 
tell you, in truth, why I can not marry Mr. Compton. 

Mary {eagerly). Well, do tell me, for I am dying to 
know. 

Anabel. You speak extravagantly. 

Mary (impatiently). Tell me if you intend to, Anabel; 
for we have already been so long away from the parlor that 
mother will wonder where we are at. 

Anabel. There ! you have saved me a long explanation. 
I will not be the wife of Mr. Compton simply because he 
is constantly committing, in conversation, the little blunder 
you just this moment made. 

Mary. And, pray, to what blunder do you allude ? I 
was not conscious of making a blunder. 

Anabel. Why, sticking the little word "at" to the end 
of almost every question or sentence you utter. 

Mary. I stand corrected, cousin. I have often thought 



PREPOSITION VS. PROPOSITION. 71 

of the careless habit you mention, and as often determined 
to break myself. 

Axabel. It is not strange, Mary, that you should fall 
into the common error; for I assure you that every third 
person I have met since my stay in Kentucky indulges in 
the same careless habit. You do not know how it grated on 
my ear at first, and, in fact, still does. 

Mary. And is this the only fault you find in James 
Compton ? 

Axabel (decidedly)* It is. 

Mary. And would you cast aside the love of a faithful 
heart for so slight a cause ? 

Axabel. I consider, Mary, that " Utile things make up 
the sum of human bliss or misery." When I left Virginia 
to make my present visit, many of my friends prophesied 
that I would find a husband in Kentucky, and since my 
acquaintance with Mr. Compton I have thought their 
prophecy might be fulfilled. I have marked his graceful 
form, and looked at his fine features, lighted as they are 
with frankness and intelligence, and the thought of pre- 
senting him to in}' circle of relatives and friencls at home 
would for the time thrill my bosom with pride ; but ah ! 
this "fairy vision'' would crumble and fall beneath the 
weight of that little word at. 

Mary. I am ready to cry. I was just thinking of James 
Compton and his wealth, position, and handsome person. 
He has been in the State Senate, and has been actually 
spoken of for Congress. Half the girls in Frankfort are 
head and ears in love with him, and you could bear off the 
prize so easily but for that miserable little at. 

Enter Agxes. 

Agxes. Sister Mary, what are you and cousin Anabel 
thinking about? Mother sent me to look for you. She 
says Mr. Compton has been waiting to see you for at least 
fifteen minutes. 

Mary. Where is he at? [Looks mischievously at Axabel.] 

Agxes (mimics Mary.) He is at the parlor. Our teacher 
says we ought not to ask where is any thing at. 

Mary. Really, your teacher must be a Virginian. Did n't 
she come from Richmond ? 

Agxes. Sister Mary, you know Miss Martin came from 



72 



ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



New York, and she says the New Yorkers don't say "at," 
like the Kentucky people. 

Mary. And I suppose she has come here to revolution- 
ize Kentucky. 

Agnes. No, she did n't say that ; all she said was that it 
surprised her when she asked Judge Sanders to patronize 
her school, he asked where she taught at; and told all the 
scholars not to say "at" that way. 

Mary. I hope Miss Martin and you, together, will bring 
things straight. Ask her if she wants any new scholars \ 
Tell her that old Mr. Compton has a son who wants to learn 
to talk so that he can visit in the first families of Virginia 
without making his friends ashamed of him. 

An abel {severely). Mary Obanon! if I did not know you 
so well I would be very angry; but you may be as sarcastic 
as you like, I will not recall what I have said. 

Mary (coaxingly). Do not get mad with your best friend. 
Anabel. I was fretted to think you would allow such a 
little thing to have so much weight; besides, you know that 
Virginians, as a general thing, are so arrogant. 

Anabel. You have forgotten what one of your great 
lawyers, Mr. Thompson, said in a speech in my hearing, that 
u Frankfort was the biggest little place in the world." 

Mary. Well, well! we will lay aside sparring, for a 
while at least, and join our hero in the parlor. 

(Certain falls.) 



SCENE II. 

Same room, occupied by Mary, seated near a table, sewing. 
Enter James Compton. 

Compton. Is it possible I find you alone, Mary ? Where 
is your fair cousin, Miss Shelby ? 

Mary. She went to Lexington on the train to-day to visit 
her relations there, and will not return for several days. 

Compton. I am glad of it. 

Mary. I scarcely credit this assertion, James, for you 
must know that we have all noticed your growing partiality 
for cousin Anabel. 



PREPOSITION VS. PROPOSITION. 



Compton. I do not deny my admiration. But I am glad 
Miss Shelby is absent ; for I was anxious to question you 
concerning her. I am certain, Mary, that you are aware of 
my love for your cousin, and I believe, too, that you know 
why she rejects that love. I have thought sometimes that 
she favored my suit, but at other times there is such a 
marked coldness in her manner that I can not comprehend 
her real sentiments. Ah, Mary, from your tell-tale face I 
fear there is something more serious than I expected. 

Mary. It is a great pity that you and Anabel can hot be 
married. You love each other so much. 

Covtpton (eagerly). Then you think she loves me? 

Mary. I fcnow she loves you, but she would be very 
angry if she knew I had told you. 

Coaepton. Then why does she refuse to accept me ? 

Mary. The reason is so simple that really I fear to tell. 

CoalPton (rises and vmlJcs to and fro). For mercy's sake, 
Mary, end this suspense. 

Mary. Well, James, if nothing else will do, and you 
must know, the truth is this : you have, in the presence of 
my high-born, aristocratic cousin, committed the unpardon- 
able sin of misapplying the little preposition at. 

Comptox (in s u rprise) . Mary ! 

Mary. Do not interrupt me ; I will tell the whole story. 
You have at various times been guilty of this gross blunder. 
For instance, the last visit you made here, as you were about 
leaving, you very innocently asked Agnes, ' ; Where is my 
hat at ?" Now this is too much for the refined taste of 
Miss Shelby, and grates upon her aristocratic ear ! 

Compton (draws himself up proudly). The nation it 
does ! 

Mary. It is useless to grind your teeth, or bite your 
nails, or to indulge in theatricals generally. The only thing 
for you to do is to correct this abominable habit, and 
Anabel is yours. {Rises to leave the room.] So, Mr. James 
Compton, put that in your pipe and smoke it. [Exit Mary.] 

Compton (advances; tic iris his hat on Ms hand). And 
this is the woman I have loved with such fond devotion ! 
To throw away a love like mine for such a cause ! I will 
banish her, together with her airs and graces, forever from 
niy heart! [Walks to and fro ; curls his Uj?.] Humph! a 
great story indeed, that because a fellow is guilty of using 



ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



a provincialism lie is to be hissed at and spit upon by a 
contemptible Virginia aristocrat. [Puts his hand to Ms 
forehead and pauses.'] What a fool love makes of a man! 
I wish I could forget this girl ! I wish I had never seen 
her ! [Twirls his hat.] ' Where is my hat at — eh? Ha ! ha ! 

{Curtain falls.) 



SCENE in. 

Room as in Scene I. Anabel dressed in traveling costume, 
standing near a table looking over a newspaper. Enter 
Mary. 

Maky {approaches Anabel; Jcissesher). O, cousin! lam 
so glad you have returned. We are to have a grand mas- 
querade and fancy ball at the Capitol this evening, and I 
was afraid you would not get here in time. 

Anabel. I heard of the ball. Indeed I received an 
invitation while I was in Lexington, and came expressly to 
attend it. But I must get you to decide my costume ; you 
have so much taste. 

Mary. Away with your flattery, cousin. The very name 
of masquerade carries with it, to me, romance. I begin to 
think directly of gallant knights, gay cavaliers, and fine 
ladies of the olden time, grim castles, old ruins, and a host 
of other things. Come, rouse yourself, Anabel, and let us 
put our wits to work a d decide the characters we will 
assume. 

Anabel. Indeed, Mary, you must choose for me. 

Mary. If you are in earnest, and insist upon it, my de- 
cision is soon made. I always wanted to see you arrayed as 
a bride. The wreath of orange blossoms will contrast so 
beautifully with your dark hah 1 ; and, then, the rich, flow- 
ing veil ! O, my ! I can scarcely wait until to-night. 

Anabel. You little impulsive witch ! And, pray, what 
character do you intend to personate ? Something mischiev- 
ous, no doubt? 

Enter Agnes. 

Agnes. There are some ladies in the parlor, sister, who 
have called to see you about the ball. 



PREPOSITION 1*5. PROPOSITION. 75 

Mary (to Anabel). We will decide upon my character 
after these ladies are gone. Till then, fair cousin Anabel. 
adieu. [Courtesies and kisses her hand playfully.] 

(Curtain falls,) 



SCENE IV. 

A room. Anabel is in full bridal attire before a mirror: 
her servant (a negro girl) is giving the "finishing touch" 
to Anabel' s dress. 

Debby (walks round Amabel; looks proudly at her). Dar 
now, chile ; de ball is wound, and you looks good enough 
to eat. 

Anabel. Ah, aunt Debby, you are an old flatterer ; you 
always say I look well. 

Debby (/places the wreath on Anabel' s head?). To be sine ! 
and you always does look purty, chile. Now, if you do n't 
caper round and git your skeerts all mussed up. dar ain't no 
dress in dat ball-room gwine to look like youm : but if 
Miss Mary 'Bannon *s comiiv in here fust, dar ain't no tellin'. 
She so wild and skittish like. 

Anabel. You should not speak so of Mary, aunt Debby : 
she is so kind. 

Debby. "Well, honey. I know she's kine; but, law! she 
wild as a deer. [Knock heard at *he door.] I 'spec dat her 
now. [Opens the door ; a decrepit old woman appears ; ad- 
vances toward Anabel.] 

Old Woman (in a trembling voice). I saw a light in this 
room, lady, and your beautiful face, through the window, 
and I made bold to come in and ask your charity. I 've 
traveled a lonely road to-day, and I am tired and hungry. 

Anabel. Have you no home ? 

Old Woman. Yes. lady : but it "s a long way off. 

Debby (aside). I "11 bet she "s possuniin. 

Anabel. How did you gain access to this room ? 

Old Woman. Where there is so much show and glitter 
a poor body like me can slip along without notice. There 's 
few that care for a poor, starving old woman. [Sobs audibly.] 

Anabel (takes her purse from the table, opens it. hands 
Old Woman a coin). Here, my good woman, if this will 



76 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

be of any use, take it. [Old Woman cbrops her clonic and 
mash, and discovers Mary Obanon.] 

Mary {laughing). Keep your gold, cousin, and I will 
say after this, tliat if Virginians are arrogant, they are also 
charitable and generous. 

x\nabel. 0, you wild creature ! And is this the garb you 
have chosen for the ball ? 

Mary. And why not ? If I can so easily deceive you, I 
will be safe with strangers. Won't I have sport, testing 
the liberality of the beaux ? But, Anabel [takes her hand, 
draws toward front of stage], come nearer the light ! How 
becoming your dress is ! Poor Jim Compton, how I pity 
him. 

Anabel. O, Mary, how can you rattle so ! [Sighs.] 

Mary. Why do you sigh, cousin ? I am sure Mr. Comp- 
ton is devoted to you, and you are a great simpleton not to 
marry him, especially as he seems to have overcome the 
abominable little at. I have been watching him closely, 
and he has positively not used it, or misused it, since you 
w r ent to Lexington. But I must be off ; and Compton is 
waiting for you below. This, till we meet again. [Kisses 
her hamd.] [Exit Mary.] 

{Curtain falls.) 



SCENE Y. 

Stage decorated as a grove or arbor. James Compton and 
Anabel 'promenading. Anabel dressed in bridal costume 
as before. 

Compton. Anabel, why is it that you persist in rejecting^ 

my suit ? Do you doubt me ? 

Anabel. I do not doubt you, Mr. Compton, but — 
Compton {eagerly). Speak! tell me, are my attentions 

indeed distasteful ? Say ! 

Enter a mask in the dress of a Gypsy girl, with a guitar 
swung carelessly across her shoulders by a gay ribbon. 

Gypsy {approaches Anabel). Truly, this is a night for 
lovers. Come ! let me read your destiny by the moon's pale 
light. [Catches Anabel' s hand; looks in the paling Ah! 



PREPOSITION VS. PROPOSITION. 77 

lady, yours is a bright future. The luxury of wealth, the 
idol of a happy home, and, above all, the homage of one 
faithful heart. [Drops Anabel' s hand.'] 

Compton. This is flattering. [Holds forth Ms hand.'} 
Now, my damsel, what can you say for me ? [Gypsy takes 
Ms hand-; looks in it; shakes her head ominously.] 

Compton (impatiently). What do you see? 

Gypsy (drops his hand). I would rather not read your 
fate. Crosses and disappointments often fill up the web of 
life. 

Compton (contemptuously). You are, perhaps, no adept 
in your art. 

Gypsy (sighs). Perhaps so. Every heart knows its own 
sorrow. 

An abel. You are becoming too serious for the things 
around us. Come, let us have a song. [Points to the guitar.] 

Gypsy (arranges the instrument and sings. Tune, "Eosin 
the Beau.") 

A gentleman, noble and great, 

Loved a lady bewitchingly fair ; 
He wanted his warm love returned, 

And his feelings he wished to declare. 
He sought the dear girl of his heart — 

In a sweet shaded bower she sat — 
But his offer she treated with scorn 

Just because the poor lover said at — 

Just because the poor lover said at. 

Compton. O, you witch! [Releasing Anabel's arm, 
springs forward, tears the mask from the face of the singer ; 
it is Maby Obanon.] 

Maby (coming forward). I hope you will pardon me; 
but it was a pity this little matter should remain unex- 
plained when it presented so small a barrier to so much 
happiness. [Turns to Anabel.] I am sure my cousin will 
thank me for correcting a trivial fault in the man of her 
choice. [Turns to Compton.] Of your forgiveness I am 
certain. 

Compton. My forgiveness, Mary ! Yes ; from my heart. 
But Anabel has not said yet that I am the man of her 
choice. 

Maby. Olbutshem^/ Will you not, cousin? 



78 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

An abel {places her hand in that of Compton). This is 
no time for false modesty. I have but one word to say — 
Yes 1 

Mary. As this is settled, and Miss Anabel Shelby has 
consented to become the wife of Mr. James Compton, I 
would like to make one inquiry. 

Anabel and Compton. Name it. 

Mary. Well ! I would like to know when the wedding 
will take place, and where it will be celebrated at ? 

Compton. All this you shall know in due time. 

{Curtain falls.) 

In the Fourth Scene, Mary Ob anon is dressed as an old 
beggar woman. In the Fifth Scene, she is dressed as a Gypsy 
dancing girl; a red petticoat (short) and a fancy bodice; a 
jaunty hat upon her head. 



THE MECHANIC S DAUGHTER. 



THE MECHANIC'S DAUGHTER. 

FOR MIXED SCHOOLS, 



CHARACTERS. 

Mrs. Nelson, Daughter to Mrs. Murray. 
Mrs. Murray, Mother to Horace. 
Aunt Atlsle, Sister to Mrs. Murray. 
Horace. 

Susan, ) sisters to Kohacb. 
Mary. \ 
Eliza, a Servant. 



SCENE. 



A room neatly furnished. Aunt Ailsle seated with a hank 
of yarn on her lap. 

Aunt Ailsie (in a lo ud. shrill voice). Mary! Mary! [En- 
ter Mary.] Come here and hold this yarn for me to wind. 
[Mary approaches ; Aunt Ailsie puts the hanlc across Mary's 
hands.'] Where have you been all day? 

Mary. At sister Lucy Jane's; and, law! Aunt Ailsie, 
what do you think ? 

Aunt Ailsie. That would be hard to tell; I think so 
many things. 

Mary. Sister Lucy Jane's Jennie told me that our 'Liza 
told her that brother Horace was courting Miss Louisa 
Lorraine ! 

Aunt Ailsie. You are a pretty chap to be talking about 
courting. But children now-a-days are ahead of me. "Who 
is Miss Louisa Lorraine ? 

Mary. Law! don't you know? Why, she is the tin- 
ner's daughter. 

Aunt Ailsie {excitedly). What? A tinner's daughter! 
{Jumps up; throios the yarn one tcay and the chair the other. ,] 



80 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Mercy on me ! Go call your mother. I must see into this 
matter. [Exit Mary. Walls to and fro; fans Iter self] 
The idea of one of the Murrays courting the daughter of a 
mechanic ! O, we are all ruined ! 

Enter Mrs. Murray, Mary, and Susan. 

Mrs. Murray. What do you want with me, Ailsie ? 

Aunt Ailsie. We are all about to be disgraced ! That 
little wretch, Eliza, is raising a report that will ruin us ! 

Mrs. Murray. Indeed ! what is it ? 

Aunt Ailsie. Ask Mary. 

Mrs. Murray (turns to Mary). What news is this you 
have been tattling ? 

Mary. I was n't tattling. Our 'Liza told sister Lucy 
Jane's Jennie that brother Horace was courting the tinner's 
daughter. 

Mrs. Murray {agitated}). What tinner's daughter ? Who 
is she ? Where does she live ? 

Susan. I will tell you, ma. You know that big still 
over the door of that big shop on Main Street? That is the 
place. 

Mrs. Murray. Goodness gracious ! What does all this 
mean? [ To Mary.] Go call Eliza. [Exit Mary.] Sister 
Ailsie, did you ever hear of any thing so ridiculous ? 

Aunt Ailsie (fanning furiously). ISTever in my life! 
There must be some mistake! some mistake! some mistake! 

Enter Mary and Eliza. 

Mrs. Murray. You little vixen, come here ! What tale 
is this you have been telling about your master Horace 

courting this Miss ! What do you call her ? [ Turns 

to Mary.] 

Mary. Miss Louisa Lorraine. 

Mrs. Murray. Yes, Louisa Lorraine. You minx! I'll 
twist your neck off ! Who put you up to this wickedness ? 

Eliza. Nobody didn't put me up to it. 'Kase Mr. 
Moore's Sam told our Jim that Miss Smith's Patsy said that 
Randall's Ben told Tier that marse Horace writ Miss Louisa 
Lorraine a love-letter. 

Mrs. Murray. A high story, indeed! And how came 
Randall's Ben to know so much ? Did Miss Lorraine tell 
him? 



THE MECHANIC'S DAUGHTER. 81 

Eliza. No, marm : but lie say lie knowed it was a love- 
letter, 'kase she turned red as a beet in de face when lie gin 
it to her. 

Auxt Ailsie. You ought to whip Eliza severely for 
raising this report, for I know she made it. 

Eliza. Xo I did n't make it, bekase Miss Smith's Patsy 
said Randall's Ben told — 

Mrs. Murray. Don't you say Randall's Ben again; if 
you do I '11 shake the life out of you. Where did your 
master Horace get acquainted with this tinner's daughter ? 

Eliza. At Miss Lucy Xelson's, marm. Dey lives next 
door to Miss Lucy. 

Mrs. Murray. It is just as I expected. Lucy Jane 
always had a hankering after low people. [To Eliza.] Go 
this instant and tell your Miss Lucy Jane to come to me. 

Eliza {starts toward the door). Yes, marm. 

Mrs. Murray. Come back here. oSTow listen! If you 
tell your Miss Lucy Jane what I want I '11 murder you ! 

Eliza {starts again). Yes, marm. 

Mrs. Murray {stamps Iter foot). Come back here, you 
imp ! Tell your Miss Lucy Jane to come quick. Now fly ! 

Eliza. Yes, marm. [Exit Eliza.] 

Susax {coming forward). O, Mary, if brother Horace 
marries Miss Louisa. Lorraine, we can get as niam^ tin-cups 
and corn-poppers as we want for nothing. 

Mary. And pa can have a tin roof and new gutters put 
on the house, because — 

Auxt Ailsie. Silence, children ; you make me nervous. 

Mrs. Murray. I wonder if you think a Hurray would 
disgrace the name by marrying the daughter of a tinner ? 

Auxt Ailsie. You forget, children, that you belong to 
one of the first families of Virginia ! 

Enter Mrs. jSFelsox in haste; falls on a chair. Enter Eliza. 

Mrs. ISTelsox. O. ma ! what is the matter ? I was lying 
on the divan in the parlor, asleep, and that little wretch 
[shakes her fist at Eliza] came in and woke me, saying that 
you said I must come here directly, and that if she told me 
what you wanted you would skin her alive ; and that it was 
something dreadful ! 

All's. Murray. And it is something dreadful. It will be 
a blow from which the Murray family can never recover ! 



82 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Mrs. Nelson. Well ! I have made up my mind to bear it 
all. What is it? Is any body dead? 

Mrs. Murray. There is no necessity for being so fright- 
ened. Nobody is dead ; but we are all about being dis- 
graced, and all owing to your imprudence. 

Mrs. Nelson (in surprise). My imprudence ! [Rises from 
he?* seat.] What do you mean ? 

Mrs. Murray. Why, I mean that you have struck up an 
intimacy with old Lorraine's family, and now it is reported 
all over this town that your brother Horace is courting the 
tinners daughter ! 

Mrs. Nelson. I am not intimate with old Lorraine, as 
you call him. 

Aunt Ailsie. You do n't deny going to their house ? 

Mrs. Nelson. No. But Miss Louisa was kind enough 
to come and stay with me while Mr. Nelson was gone, and 
I only went out of gratitude to see them. 

Mrs. Murray (raising Tier hands in horror). You do n't 
tell me, Lucy Jane, that you have really been in old Lor- 
raine's house ! 

Mrs. Nelson. Yes, I went there once ; but it was nearly 
dark, and I did not think any body would see me ; and, be- 
sides, whose business is it where I go ? 

Mrs. Murray. Well ! you see what your imprudence has 
done ! Your brother Horace met this girl at your house, 
and now his name is bandied all around town with hers. 

Mrs. Nelson. I can not help it. Miss Lorraine is beau- 
tiful, and brother Horace might do worse than marry her, 
if she is a tinner's daughter. 

Aunt Ailsie. Why, Lucy Jane, I am astonished to hear 
you talk so. 

Mrs. Nelson. Well, you need not be ; for, besides being 
pretty, Miss Lorraine is accomplished. She plays, and 
sings, and understands French, and — 

Mrs. Murray. One thing is certain: she shall never 
marry my son ! 

Mrs. Nelson. What are you going to do about it ? 

Mrs. Murray. Why, I will see Horace and sift this thing 
to the bottom. 

Mrs. Nelson. That will not do any good; for when a 
young man falls in love he won't listen to reason. 

Mrs. Murray. Reason, indeed! I will never give my 



THE MECHANIC'S DAUGHTER. 83 

consent for Horace to marry this low-born daughter of a 
mechanic ! 

Mrs. Nelson. O, ma ! you are so imprudent. Miss Lor- 
raine might hear of something you have said, and I would 
not hurt the poor girl's feelings. 

Aunt Ailsie. Mechanic's daughters have no business 
having feelings. 

Mrs. Nelson. O, Aunt Ailsie ! 

Aunt Ailsie. You needn't "Aunt Ailsie" me. I have 
no regard for people who want to step out of their place. 
There never was a mechanic in my father's parlor. 

Mary. I do n't know how he got his parlor built unless 
there was a mechanic in it. 

Aunt Ailsie. You are too pert, miss ! No doubt, when 
you get old enough, you will be running off to be married 
to some trifling mechanic. 

Mary. I would rather do that than be a dried-up old 
maid like you. 

Mrs. Murray. Mary ! Mary ! leave the room this instant. 
you sauce-box. [Exit Mary.] 

Mrs. Nelson. I wonder where brother Horace is ~i I 
would like to have this matter settled before I go home. 

Susan. O, ma. I hear him whistling in the hall now. 
[Whistle outside.] 

Mrs. Murray. Call him in. I will make the youngster 
give an account of himself. [Exit Susan." 

Mrs. Kelson. Ma. you are too impulsive. Do not be too 
hard on poor Horace. 

Mrs. Murray (stamjjs her foot). Silence, Lucy Jane ! 

Enter Horace and Susan. 

Horace. What can be the matter \ Susan came running 
after me, and says the whole house is topsy-turvy, and I can 
make no sense out of any thing she says. 

Mrs. Murray. 0, yes, master Horace, you just don't 
want to understand ! 

Horace. I do not understand you. certainly. 

Aunt Allsle. You are a nice young man ! 

Mrs. Nelson. 0. Horace ! you are going to catch it ! 

Horace {looks bewildered). TVhat does all this mean ? I 
would as soon be in a yellow-jacket's nest as have so many 
women's tongues lashing me. 



84 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Aunt Ailsie (exultingly). Maybe you would rather be 
in old Lorraine's tin-shop. 

Horace. What do you know of old Lorraine's tin-shop ? 

Mrs. Murray. Not as much as Mr. Horace Murray knows 
of old Lorraine's daughter, if all reports are true. 

Horace. To what reports do you allude ? 

Mrs. Murray. Do you know that it is the common talk 
of the town that you are courting the tinner's daughter? 
[Sneers.] 

Horace. Where did you get your information ? 

Mrs. Murray {points to Eliza). From Eliza, there. 

Horace. O, ho! I see the news comes through an "in- 
telligent contraband." Well, my ma, since it is fashionable 
to receive information through such sources, I suppose I 
must pardon you for listening to negro news. 

Mrs. Murray. You do not deny an acquaintance with 
this dainty Miss Lorraine ? 

Horace (bowing). Indeed, I do not. 

Aunt Ailsie. You do not deny going to her house ? 

Horace. I do not deny that either. 

Mrs. Nelson. You do not deny being in love with her ? 

Horace. I do not, assuredly. 

Eliza {grinning). You do n't deny sending her dat love- 
letter, does you, marse Horace ? 

Horace. No, indeed — I do not. 

Mrs. Murray {raises her hands despairingly). O, Horace! 

Horace. With due deference to you, my aristocratic 
mother, I acknowledge that I did make Miss Lorraine an 
offer of my hand and fortune. 

Mrs. Murray. Well, sir, I will undo all you have done. 

Horace. It is unnecessary. 

Mrs. Murray. It is not unnecessary ! I will write a note 
to this plebeian girl and decline the alliance ! 

Horace. I tell you it is needless. Here, sister, [to Mrs. 
Nelson, takes a letter from his pocket^ this is Miss Lor- 
raine's answer to my proposal. Read it for the benefit of 
the house. 

Mrs. Nelson (takes the letter', approaches front of stage, 
reads): "Mr. Horace Murray : I received your courteous note 
containing an offer of your hand and fortune ; but, under 
existing circumstances, must decline the honor you wish to 
confer upon me. Respectfully, Louisa Lorraine." 



THE MECHANIC'S DAUGHTER. 85 

Aunt Ailsie (approaches Mrs. Nelson, places Tier hand to 
her ear, assumes a listening attitude). Read that again ; I am 
a little hard of hearing. 

Mrs. Nelson (reads in a much louder tone). "Mr. Horace 
Murray : I received your courteous note containing an offer 
of your hand and fortune ; but, under existing circumstances, 
must decline the honor you wish to confer upon me. Re- 
spectfully, Louisa Lorraine." 

Aunt Ajlsee. Well ! well ! well ! 

Mrs. Murray. The up-start! to reject my son, 

Mrs. Nelson. Horace, what does she mean by " existing 
circumstances?" 

Horace. That, sister, is easily explained ; for Miss Lor- 
raine was married this very morning to Brigadier-general 
John A. B. C. Smith! 

Aunt Ailsie. Well! well! The idea of a brigadier- 
general marrying the daughter of a tinner ! It is my opin- 
ion that aristocracy is played out in this part of the country. 
[All retire to tack of stage, out Eliza, ioTio comes forward.'] 

Eliza. I knowed it ! I knowed it ! — counting chickens be- 
fore dey is hatched ! Dis is what white folks git by listen - 
\_8ings "0, 1 wish I was in Dixie /"] 

(Curtain falls.) 



COSTUMES. 



Mrs. Murray. Dark silk dress, modern style ; handsome 
cap ; gold-rimmed spectacles. 

Aunt Ailsie. A true type of a Virginia aristocrat of the 
olden time. Black satin dress ; cap elaborately trimmed ; spec- 
tacles ; a large fan. 

Mrs. Nelson. Plain home dress, fashionably made. 

Mary and Susan. Home dresses, of modern style. 

Horace. Plain citizen's dress. 

Eliza. Cotton (striped) dress, waist-apron, gaudy-colored 
head-handkerchief. 



86 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



THE MECHANIC'S DAUGHTER. 

ARRANGED IN A MANNER TO BE ACTED BY GIRLS 
ALONE. 



CHARACTERS. 

Mrs. Murray, Mother to Horace. 
Aunt Ailsie, Sister to Mrs. Murray. 

Mrs. Nelson, ) 

Susan, > Daughters to Mrs. Murray. 

Mary, ) 

Eliza, a Servant. 



SCENE. 



Room. Aunt Ailsie seated, hC.Ang a hank of yam across 
her lap. 

Aunt Ailsie (in a shrill mice). Mary! Mary! {Enter 
Mary.] Come here and hold this yarn for me to wind. 
[Mary approaches and takes the yarn.'] Where have you 
been all day ? 

Mary. I've been to sister Lucy Jane's; and, law! Aunt 
Ailsie, what do you think ? 

Aunt Ailsie. That would be hard to say; I think so 
many things. 

Mary. Well, sister Lucy Jane's Jennie told rae that our 
'Liza told her that brother Horace was courting Miss Louisa 
Lorraine ! 

Aunt Ailsie. You are a pretty person to be talking about 
courting. [Turns to audience.'] But children now-a-days 
are ahead of me. [To Mary.] Who is Miss Louisa Lor- 
raine ? 

Mary. She is the tinner's daughter. 

Aunt Ailsie. What! a tinner's daughter! [Jerks the 
yarn from Mary, rises and pushes oach her chair.] Mercy 



THE MECHANIC'S DAUGHTER. 87 

on Hie ! Go call your mother, I must see into this matter. 
[Exit Mary. Aunt Ailsie walks to and fro, rubbing her 
hands and fanning Tier self violently.] The idea of one of 
the Murray s courting a mechanic's daughter ! 0, we are 
all ruined ! 

Enter Mrs. Murray and Mary. 

Mrs. Murray. What do you want with me, Ailsie ? 

Aunt Ailsie. We are all about to be disgraced ! That 
little wretch, 'Liza, is raising a report- that will ruin us ! 

Mrs. Murray. Indeed ! "What is it ? 

Aunt Ailsie {fanning herself). Ask Mary. 

Mrs. Murray (to Mary). What news is this you are 
tattling? 

Mary. I wasn't tattling. 'Liza just told sister Lucy 
Jane's Jennie that brother Horace was courting the tinner's 
daughter. 

Mrs. Murray (excitedly). What tinner's daughter ? Where 
does she live ? Who is she ? 

Mary. You know that big still over the door of that 
high shop on Main Street ? That is the place. 

Mrs. Murray. Goodness gracious! what does all this 
mean? Go call Eliza. [uSxit Mary.] Did you [to Aunt 
Ailsie] ever hear of any thing so preposterous ? 

Aunt Ailsie. Never in my life. [ Wall's about.] 

Enter Eliza, Mary, and Susan. 

Mrs. Murray (to Eliza.) You little vixen, come here ! 
What tale is this you have been telling about your master 

Horace courting this Miss what do you call her ? 

[to Mary.] 

Mary. Louisa Lorraine. 

Mrs. Murray. Yes, Louisa Lorraine. You minx! I'll 
twist your neck off ! Who put you up to all this wicked- 
ness ? 

Eliza. Nobody didn't put me up to no wick'ness. 
[Raises her arm and gesticulates.] Mr. Moore's Sam told 
our Jim dat Miss Smith's Patsy said dat Miss Brown's Milly 
'dared dat Randall's Ben told her dat marse Horace writ 
Miss Lorraine a love-letter! 

Mrs. Murray. A high story, indeed! And how did 
Randall's Ben come to know so much? Did Miss Lorraine 
tell him? 



ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



Eliza. No, marm. But Randall's Ben say lie knowed 
't was a love-letter, 'kase when he give it to her her face turn 
red as a beet, 

Aunt Ailsie. You ought to whip Eliza severely for 
raising this report, for I know she made it. 

Eliza (quicMy). No, marm, I didn't make it, 'kase Ran- 
dall's Ben told 

Mrs. Murray (angrilp). Don't you say Randall's Ben 
again ! If you do, I '11 shake the life out of you ! Where 
did your master Horace get acquainted with this tinner's 
daughter ? 

Eliza. At Miss Lucy Jane Nelson's, ma'm. Dey lives 
next door to Miss Luc}- Jane. 

Mrs. Murray. It is just as I thought. Lucy Jane al- 
ways had a hankering after low people. [To Eliza.] Go 
this instant, and tell your Miss Lucy Jane to come to me ! 

Eliza (starts toward the door). Yes, marm. 

Mrs. Murray (stamps her foot). Come back here! Now 
listen! If you tell your Miss Lucy Jane what I want, I'll 
skin you alive ! 

Eliza. Yes, marm. [Starts again,'] 

Mrs. Murray. Come back, you imp! Tell your Miss 
Lucy Jane to come quick. Now fly ! 

Eliza. Yes, marm. [Exit Eliza.] 

Susan. Law, ma, if brother Horace marries the tinner's 
daughter, we can get as many little patty-pans and tin-cups 
as we want — for nothing ! 

Mary. Yes, and pa can have new gutters put to the 
house, because — 

Aunt Ailsie (impatiently). Mercy on me ! Children, you 
make me nervous ! 

Mrs. Murray. I wonder if you think a Murray would 
disgrace the name by marrying the daughter of a mechanic ? 

Aunt Ailsie (walks about proudly). You forget, chil- 
dren, that you belong to one of the first families of Vir- 
ginia ! 

[Enter Mrs. Nelson, falls into a chair and throws off her 
bonnet.] 

Mrs. Nelson. O, ma ! what is the matter ? I was asleep 
on the divan, in the parlor, and that little wretched 'Liza 
[shakes her fist at Eliza] came running in and said you 



THE MECHANIC'S DAUGHTER. 89 

wanted me directly, and that if she told me what you 
wanted you would skin her alive; but it was something 
dreadful ! • 

Mrs. Murray. It is something dreadful ! 

Mrs. Nelson. Tell me the worst. I have made up my 
mind to bear it. Is any body dead ! 

Mrs. Murray. You needn't look so frightened. No- 
body is dead, but we are about to be disgraced, and all 
owing to your imprudence ! 

Mrs. Nelson (in amazement). My imprudence ! What 
do you mean ? 

Mrs. Murray. Why you have struck up an intimacy 
with old Lorraine's family, and now it is reported all over 
town that your brother Horace is courting the tinner's 
daughter ! 

Mrs. Nelson. It is a mistake, I can assure you, for I am 
not intimate with "old Lorraine," as you call him. 

Aunt Ailsie. You do n't deny going to their house ? 

Mrs. Nelson. No ; but Miss Louisa was kind enough to 
come and stay with me while Mr. Nelson was gone, and I 
only went there out of gratitude. 

Mrs. Murray (clasps her hands). O, Lucy Jane! You 
do n't tell me that you have been in old Lorraine's house ? 

Mrs. Nelson. Yes, I went there once ; but it was dusk, 
and I did not think any of our set would see me. 

Mrs. Murray. Well! see what your imprudence has 
done. Your brother Horace met this girl at your house, 
and now his name is bandied about with hers. 

Mrs. Nelson. I can't help it. She is as good as brother 
Horace. 

Aunt Ailsie. Why, Lucy Jane! I am astonished at 
you ! 

Mrs. Nelson. You needn't be ; for, besides being pretty, 
Miss Lorraine is accomplished. She sings and plays, and 
understands French and — 

Mrs. Murray. One thing is certain: she shall never 
marry my son ! 

Mrs. Nelson. You can't help it. When a young man 
falls in love, he won't listen to reason ! 

Mrs. Murray (excitedly). I'll let you see whether I can 
help it or not. [To Mary.] Go bring me the pen, ink, and 
paper. [Exit Mary.] 



90 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Mrs. Nelson. What will you do ? 

Mrs. Murray. I am going to write to this dainty and 
accomplished miss, and tell her w T hat I think. 

Enter Mary with writing materials. Mrs. Murray seats 
herself and writes. 

Mrs. Nelson. O, ma! do not hurt the poor girl's feelings. 

Aunt Ailsie. Mechanics' daughters have no business 
having feelings. 

Mrs. Nelson. O, Aunt Ailsie ! 

Aunt Ailsie. You needn't "O, Aunt Ailsie" me! I 
have no patience with people who want to step out of their 
place. There never was a mechanic in my father's parlor ! 

Mary. I don't know how he got his parlor built if 
there never was a mechanic in it. 

Aunt Ailsie. You are too pert, miss ! No doubt, some 
of these days you will be running off to be married to some 
trifling mechanic ! 

Mary. I had rather do that than to be a dried-up old 
maid like you. 

Mrs. Murray (rises from her seat). Mary! Mary! Go 
out of this room instantly. [Exit Mary. Hands Mrs. Nel- 
son a letter.'] Now, read that. I think when Miss Lor- 
raine gets this she will feel humbled. 

Mrs. Nelson (reads aloud). "Miss Lorraine: I under- 
stand, from a reliable source, that you have received a love- 
letter from my son Horace, and I write this to let you know 
that if you imagine that he intends to marry you, it is 
useless to indulge in any such dream of grandeur, as 
his father and myself will never countenance a marriage 
between our son and the daughter of a tinner. E. Murray." 
O, ma ! do not send such a note as this. 

Mrs. Murray. Luc}^ Jane, I am not to be interfered 
with; so, silence ! [To Eliza.] Take this note and give it 
to Miss Lorraine. 

Eliza. Yes, marm. [Exit Eliza.] 

Aunt Ailsie. It serves her right. She has no business 
having such high notions. 

Mrs. Nelson. Yes, but I would not hurt an innocent 
ghi's feelings ; and, then, what will Horace say ? 

Mrs. Murray. Horace is not to be consulted. He must 
not disgrace the family. 



THE MECHANIC'S DAUGHTER. 91 

Mrs. Nelson. You have done more to disgrace the fam- 
ily, ma, than Horace would by marrying Miss Lorraine, for 
she would be an ornament to society anywhere. 

Mrs. Murray. Do you imagine that all Miss Lorraine's 
accomplishments, as you term it, will ever raise her from 
obscurity. No man of position would link his fortunes 
with a mechanic's daughter. 

Mrs. Nelson. I am not so sure. But here comes Eliza, 
out of breath. 

Enter Eliza, panting. 

Mrs. Murray. Did you give Miss Lorraine the note ? 

Eliza. No, inarcn, She want thar. But old Miss Lor- 
raine sent dis. [Hands Mrs. Murray a note.'] 

Mrs. Murray. Lucy Jane, read it, and let us hear what 
the old thing says. 

Mrs. Nelson (comes forward; reads). "Mrs. Murray: 
Your very polite and elegant note was received, but it came 
too late for my daughter Louisa to have the exquisite pleas- 
ure of reading it, as she was married this morning to the 
Hon. George Keith, member of Congress from the Sixth 
District. They started immediately to Washington City, as 
Congress is now in session. 

" Very respectfully, M. Lorraine. 1 ' 

Aunt Ailsie (leans toward Mrs. Nelson with Tier hand 
against her ear). Read that again. I am a little hard of 
hearing. [Mrs. Nelson reads the note again in a much 
louder tone.'] 

Mrs. Murray. The up -start ! to refuse my son. 

Aunt Ailsie. Well ! well ! The idea of a member of 
Congress marrying the daughter of a tinner. My opinion is 
that aristocracy is played out in this part of the country. 

[Exeunt all out Eliza.] 

Eliza (comes forward). I knowed it! I knowed it] 
Dat 's what white folks git listening to nigger news. 
and dances off the stage.] "O, I wish I was in Dixie!" 

(Curtain falls.) 



92 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



THE SPELLING LESSON. 



CHARACTERS. 

Kate Preston. 

Nannie Foster. 

Frank Foster, Brother to Nannie. 

David Wellington. 



SCENE I. 



Home scene. Frank and David seated near a table, on which 
is a backgammon-board. 

David. Who was that beautiful young lady we saw, 
Frank, at the seminary last evening ? 

Frank. Who was she, indeed ? Be more explicit ; how 
was she dressed? 

David. Pshaw! how do I know any thing about a 
woman's dress. I mean the one who was crowned the 
Queen of Flowers. 

Frank. Ah ! that was Kate Preston, the daughter of our 
professor. 'T is said she inherits her father's fine intellect. 
She is to make her debut into society on her next birthday, 
when she will be just seventeen. She and my sister Nannie, 
the young lady who represented the Violet, are very inti- 
mate, but as different as day and night ; but the Queen of 
Flowers bends to give the humble Violet her friendship. 

David. Her part was well selected, for she looks a 
queen. 

Frank. I will do myself the pleasure of introducing 
you to Miss Preston, as I see she has made a decided im- 
pression upon the fastidious Doctor Wellington. 

David. I shall be very grateful, Frank ; for I do assure 
you I am decidedly in love. 

Frank. Love at first sight. But I am not surprised, for 
Kate is very lovely. 



THE SPELLING LESSON. 93 

David. You are not in love with her, I hope ? 

Prank. I in love with her! Mo, sir ! I would as soon 
think of winning the morning star for a breastpin as the 
peerless Kate for a wife. And. notwithstanding, ray Mend. 
yon are the son of a millionaire^ I doubt if you can succeed 
in making an impression on her. 

David. And why not \ I flatter myself that I am good- 
looking enough, and I know — 

Frank {interrupting 'David). Your good looks will have 
but little effect upon Kate. Nothing short of a Napoleon 
will satisfy her ambition. I believe she would demand all 
the qualities and genius of Virgil, Shakespeare, Moore, and 
a host of others combined, in the man she chooses for a 
husband. 

David. And why may I not aspire to her hand ? I have 
wealth; my family is aristocratic enough to satisfy the 
most sensitive clisrjosition. 

Frank. True enough. I know you are worthy, but you 
know, too, that although you have naturally a fine mind, 
you have never "paled your cheek" by ••burning the mid- 
night lamp." You can converse brilliantly, and I have 
heard ladies exclaim, "What a charming fellow Dr. Well- 
ington is! Such a genius! So intellectual!" But these 
were the every-day girls we meet. Kate Preston is of a 
different order: and there is one weak point (pardon my 
frankness) in your character that would condemn you for- 
ever in the eyes of Kate Preston. 

David. And, pray, what is it ] 

Frank. Do not get angry, Doctor, if I speak plainly. 
Y^ nether it results from carelessness, or an actual want of 
knowledge, I know not, but you are a miserable speller ! 

David. I acknowledge this ; for I remember when a boy 
at school I had the greatest desire to make a bonfire of 
every spelling-book in the world, and fancied how I would 
glory in seeing them blaze and turn to ashes. My spelling 
lesson at school was my especial aversion. 

Frank. Well, let Kate Preston ever find out that you 
are deficient in spelling, and she will spurn you certain. 
Beware how you write her any love-letters. 

David. To tell the truth. Prank, half my bad spelling 
does result from carelessness; but I confess that, with such 
words as receive, I never know whether the e or the i 



94 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

comes first, and I was twenty years old before I knew how 
to spell separate ; and this minute, if I were called upon to 
spell the word niece, I would not know where to place the 
i and e. 

Frank. Well; I will introduce you to Kate Preston, 
and then leave you to fight your own way. 

David. I think it would be a silly reason for a woman 
to give for rejecting a lover, that he happened to misspell a 
word. 

Frank. Yes; but you can put that to the score of a 
thousand other silly things women are guilty of. For my 
part, I intend to marry a wife beneath me in intellect, for I 
have a horror of blue stockings. 

David. Well, for my part, I intend to marry Kate Pres- 
ton, if I can get her consent ; for I am not afraid of her. 
She has no more talent by nature than I have. 

Frank. You may succeed, Doctor, and I hope you will, 
from my heart, for you deserve a good wife ; but take care 
not to write to Miss Preston — do all your courting by talk- 
ing. [Both rise.] But it is time we were starting to the 
theater. The young ladies will be impatient. So, let us 
be off. [Exeicnt Frank and David.] 

( Curtain falls.) 



SCENE II. 

Home scene. Nannie seated near a table sewing. Enter 

Kate. 

Nannie {rises; offers a chair). Come, Kate, and be 
seated. I was just thinking of you. I can work faster 
with your voice to cheer me. 

Kate {takes seat). O, Nannie! behold in me the most 
miserable of all women. I am utterly undone ! 

Nannie. Why, Kate, what can be the matter? Have 
you heard bad news from home ? Is your mother ill ? 

Kate. No ! no ! 

Nannie. Then, what ails you? Caressed and flattered 
as you are, what can trouble the belle of the season ? Be- 
sides, does not the world say that you have won the heart 
of the brilliant Dr. Wellington? 



THE SPELLING LESSON. 95 

Kate. You will drive me mad, Nannie ! do not mention 
the creature's name. 

Nannie. The creature! Why, Kate, I begin to think 
you are crazy. Why do you apply such a name to him? 

Kate. I tell you, do not mention Dr. Wellington again 
in my presence. I never, never can be his wife. 

Nannie (surprised). You love him, Kate? This you 
dare not deny. 

Kate. Aye ! that is just what distresses me. To think 
I have poured out nry heart's best affection upon a man 
who — but, O, my heart is breaking ! [Puts her hand on her 
heart.'] 

Nannie. What does all this mean ? What has Dr. Well- 
ington done ? Relieve my mind of this horrid suspense. 
Has he committed some crime ? Has he been guilty of de- 
falcation ? I tell you, Kate, if such a report has reached 
your ears, it is a base fabrication. Dr. Wellington is hon- 
orable ; he is noble ; he is worthy the love of any woman. 
He may, perhaps, have killed some one in a moment of 
passion, but — 

Kate (lifting up her hands). O. Nannie, do stop! I have 
heard nothing, but I have proof that he is totally unworthy 
of my notice. 

Nannie. Where is the proof ? 

Kate (draws a letter from her pocket). Here! I wrote 
to him, Nannie, as I promised, first, before he wrote to me, 
giving him a long account of my trip to the Mammoth 
Cave; and, in return, what have I received? Look here. 
[Opens the letter; reads.'] "lam happy to know that you 
so much enjoyed your t-r-i-p-e to the Cave." Just to think, 
Nannie, he spells trip, tripe! O, my heart will burst! 
[Covers her face with her hands.] 

Nannie. Why, Kate Preston ! I am overwhelmed with 
amazement. It may have been an oversight. Would you 
reject the man you love for this? 

Kate. It was no oversight. [Throws the letter toward 
Nannie.] Read for yourself. You know it was under- 
stood that when we were married we would take a tour 
through Europe, and, in alluding to that, he spells voyage 
v-o-i-a-g-e ! 

Nannie. Well, suppose he does! Must a man be ex- 
patriated, exiled, confiscated; because he can't spell? 



96 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Kate. How can you jest, Nannie, when the happiness of 
my life depends on this. 

Nannie. Forgive me, Kate, I did not intend to wound 
you; but it is so silly, so ridiculous, for you to reject Dr. 
Wellington on such a plea. 

Kate. I have rejected him! 

Nannie {clasps Tier hands). O, Kate! 

Kate. I wrote to him that, as I was not fond of tripe, 
he must pardon me for wishing to be released from our 
engagement. 

Nannie. How could you wound his noble nature by 
any thing so cruel ! 

Kate. Well, it is too late now. The die is cast. The 
letter is on its way to New Orleans. 

Nannie. You have known Dr. Wellington nearly a year, 
Wiry did you not discover this unpardonable defect sooner ? 

Kate. How could I ? I had never seen a word of his 
in writing, and he converses so brilliantly that I never sus- 
pected the truth. I will die an old maid before I will 
marry him ! 

Nannie. Kate, how can you forget his devotion since 
the night of your birthday party ? And do n't you remem- 
ber how Frank says he loved you all the time, at first sight, 
before he knew your position ? How can you cast off one 
so generous, so devoted? 

Kate. I have much respect, Nannie, for your opinion ; 
but, in choosing a husband, I must be my own judge. 
When Dr. Wellington left us for his Southern home, last 
fall, I promised to become his wife ; but, in my opinion, it 
will be more honorable to retreat now than to make him 
and myself miserable for life. I can not marry a man I 
think my inferior. My husband must command my respect, 
love, and reverence, and how could I look up to a man who 
is deficient in spelling ? But 

"We will not quarrel, my beloved friend, 
Opinions all must have — there let it end ! " 

Nannie. I will not quarrel, dear Kate ; but I can not 
forbear condemning your course. As sure as you are now 
alive you will repent such rashness ! 

Kate {rises, throws her arm about Nannie's neck and, 
places her hand upon Nannie's mouth). Not another word, 



THE SPELLING LESSON. 97 

Nannie — not another word ! I can not many a man who 
does not know how to spell. 

{Curtain falls.) 

SCENE XH. 

Kate and Nannie, surrounded by the different articles liable 
to be seen in a mantua-maker's department preparatory to 
ay wedding — tohite tarlatan, satin, ribbons, flowers, etc., etc.; 
Kate twirling a wreath of white fioioers in her hand; Nan- 
nie holding a case of jewels. 

Nannie. It seems so strange. Kate, that only a short 
time ago I was full of the idea of assisting you in prepar- 
ing your bridal wardrobe, and now you are helping me ! 

Kate (sighs). Yes, Nannie, but we never know the 
changes that may take place ! 

Nannie. I have never mentioned Dr. Wellington's name 
in your presence, Kate, since you told me how cruelly you 
replied to his letter. It has been so long ago that I feel 
justified in broaching the subject. I have always wanted 
to know how he received your answer. 

Kate. I have avoided mentioning any thing in connec- 
tion with the affair between Dr. Wellington and myself to 
you. Nannie, because I came painfully conscious of having 
recklessly thrown away my life's happiness, and indeed I 
have tried never to think of it. 

Nannie. And have you succeeded ? Do you ever think 
of him ? 

Kate. Think of him ! It is the only real pleasure I enjoy ! 
I carry his answer to my letter always about me, and, al- 
though I richly deserve every word he has written, still 
there is an indefinable solace in reading the words traced 
by his hand. [Draws a letter from her pocket.'] Here it is. 
Let me read it for you. No, I can not. Take it and read it 
to me. 

Nannie (takes the letter). Certainly, if you desire it. 

Kate. Yes, I believe I want to hear it. 

Nannie {opens letter ; reads). "Miss Preston — Your com- 
mand I obey. The return of your picture to its fair orig- 
inal no doubt sets your restless heart at ease. You are free 



98 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

from your hated engagement, I am very sorry you were 
not as much pleased with my letter as I am with your 
charmimg effusion, whose pages can almost rival the po- 
etry of Shakespeare or the immortal Byron! The wonder 
still grows with me, how ; one small' sheet of paper can 
hold the knowledge therein contained. Such sublime elo- 
quence! such generous sentiments! such noble forbearance ! 
displaying all the grandeur of your Grecian mind. Alas ! 
all is lost to me ! Hope, the lovely goddess of the unfor- 
tunate, even refuses her aid and sympathy ; but Fortitude 
stands my noble friend and whispers she will lend her as- 
sisting hand. I believe I can survive the shock, and I am 
the better able to bear it as I have sufficient of this world's 
goods to sustain me, even should my days be prolonged to 
the length of our ancient friend, Methuselah. Perfectly 
excusable are you, my brilliant friend, not to throw away 
your towering talents for a man who, unfortunately for 
himself, can not spell. I am quite aware I am not a De- 
mosthenes, Clay, or even a Noah Webster! Neither is 
every lady a Minerva ! I have dared to love you, with all 
your august attainments, but I stand not alone, for all men 
admire coquettes and flirts. Farewell ! I shall attend the 
lectures the ensuing winter. Fear not, I shall not intrude 
upon your regal beauty. Best wishes for your happiness 
until you can find a companion for life who can spell bet- 
ter than Your most devoted serv't, David Wellington." 
[Folds letter, hands it to Kate.] Every word in this letter 
is spelled correctly. You can find no fault with this. 

Kate. This letter has made me more unhappy than the 
first. 

Nannie. Why? 

Kate. It proves for what a trifle I threw away my life's 
happiness. 

Nannie. But you do not love him now. You are too 
gay to be heart-broken. You are the life of society. 

Kate. Do you suppose that I would make a X3ublic dis- 
play of my feelings ? I would never have alluded to the 
subject to you, Nannie, dearly as I love you, but the human 
heart longs for sympathy. 6, Nannie ! the night after the 
medical students received their diplomas, (I mean, of course, 
the graduates.) my father requested me to accompany him 
to hear the valedictory. I went, and when Dr. Wellington 



THE SPELLING LESSON. 99 

arose tlie chosen orator for the evening, so graceful, so 
handsome, so noble in his bearing, I trembled and must 
have turned deadly pale, for my father asked if 1 was ill, 
and handed me a glass of water. I had a conspicuous seat. 
and, fearing to attract attention, and above all his notice, 
I made a violent effort and controlled my emotion. But I 
came very near fainting. Ah, Nannie ! you told me I would 
repent, and I have in " sack-cloth and ashes ! " David Well- 
ington will never know how my proud heart has been hum- 
bled ; he will never know how much, how fondly, I loved 
him ! 

Enter David and Frank. 

Frank. Indeed, he will know it, and does know it ; for 
as we were about entering this room we were stopped on 
the threshold of the door by the cadence of your voice, 
Miss Kate. I will do the Doctor the justice to say he 
was not a willing eavesdropper, but he was a delighted 
listener. [Kate covers Tier face with her hands.'] Come, 
Katy, darling, [takes Kate's arm and draws her toward 
David,] you understand each other now ; and, by the 
living piper, [to Nannie,] sister, we will have a double 
wedding! Shall it not be so? 

David (approaches Kate, draws her hand, through his 
arm.) Let Kate answer; my fate is in her hands! 

Kate. I do not deserve — 

Frank (interrupting Kate). You do not deserve such 
a noble husband, Miss Kate, after your behavior to my 
friend ; but if we never received any good but such as we 
deserve, I fear we would all be in Davy Jones's locker. 

Nannie. With nothing to eat, Kate, but tripe ! 

( Curtain falls.) 



COSTUMES. 



Kate Preston and Nannie Foster. Becoming home 
dresses, varied in each scene according to the taste of the 
performers. 

Frank and David. Plain citizens' dresses. 



100 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



THE PEA-GREEN GLAZED CAMBRIC. 



CHARACTERS. 

Nellie Dale. 

Mrs. Grey, Grandmother to Nellie. 

Miss Julia Hoskins, an Heiress. 

Miss Susan Hobbs, a Spinster. 

Mrs. Stuart, Mother to James. 

James Stuart. 

Doxy, a Servant. 



SCENE I. 



A sitting-room. Mrs. Grey knitting, seated in an arm chair. 
Nellie seated near, toith a half-worn white Stoiss dress 
across her lap. 

Nellie (throics the dress on the floor). This old muslin 
will never do. I have worn it till it is threadbare. Julia 
Hoskins's birthday party comes off to-night, and I must 
make a raise of some sort. \_Bises from her seat.] Say, old 
miss, give me the key of the red chest up -stairs ; there may 
be a handsome silk or something stored away in it. 

Mrs. Grey. You can have the key, but, my poor child, I 
fear it will be a fruitless search. Your mother's wedding- 
dress was taken from that very chest ; yes, and almost all 
the finery she ever had, for your grandfather died soon 
after Ms last sea -voyage, when he brought it to me. There 
may be some ribbons and laces left, but I doubt it. This 
muslin dress you have worn so often was the last dress pat- 
tern I had. 

Nellie. But, old miss, 'twill do no harm to look; be- 
sides, it is my only chance. Where is the key ? 

Mrs. Grey. You will find it in the glass drawer, but be 
careful and do not rumple my caps. 



THE PEA-GREEN GLAZED CAMBRIC. 101 

Xellie. Can't you throw an old shoe after me for good 
luck? [Exit Xellie: hums a t 

Mrs. Grey. When her poor grandfather returned from 

India and brought so many nice things. I little thought 
the dark days that were to come. Her mother was wh : 
Nellie is now, and when I look at her I almost fancy I have 
my first Nellie back. Poor child', she ought to have a d w 
dress. Let me see. [Stops Tcmtting.~\ Mrs. Stuart owes me 
ten dollars for sewing, and Nellie is entitled to it. for sh 
worked day and nigh? helping me. But then to-morrow is 
rent-day. and market-day. too. and I have only two dollars 
in the house ! Can't I — 

Enter Xellle. 

Xellie (holding up a roll of goods). See! old miss — 
Eureka ! A fine green glace silk ! 

Mrs. Grey {wipes her glasses^ replaces tliern.) Am I dream- 
ing \ Bring it closer. I remember no green silk being in 
that chest, and you have been needing a party-dress so long. 
too. Bring it nearer, I say. 

Xellie {approaches; Mrs. Grey takes the end of the doth 
in her hands.) Dear child, did you think this was silk \ 
Why, it is nothing bnt green glazed cambric ! 

Xellie. I know it. old miss, but I intend to make folks 
think it is silk. [Draws from beneath the cambric some fine 
ribbon and lace.] Just see this elegant ribbon! and here is 
lace enough to flounce it to the waist, and that is the fash- 
ion now. 

Mrs. Grey. You are not in earnest, Xellie \ If you wear 
a glazed cambric to the party. Miss Hoskins will feel in- 
sulted. Always avoid any thing of this sort. 

Xellie. But. old miss. I tell you they will never suspect 
it. With real lace and this ribbon it will look exactly like 
silk. Julia Hoskins will think her blue tarlatan totally 
eclipsed. 

Mrs. Grey. And if they detect the imposition you \< 
be mortified. 

Xellie. I tell you they will never know the difference. 
I intend to risk the chances, at any rate. 

Mrs. Grey. Will Susan Hobbs be at the party \ 

Xellie. Of course. Julia Hoskins can not take snuff 
without Miss Susan sneezes, and you know she will be there. 



102 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Mrs. Gkey. Then I know you can never pass off that 
stuff for silk. 

Nellie. Do n't fear, old miss. If I do n't slip between 
Miss Susan Hobbs's fingers before she can feel the texture 
of this goods, I'll agree that I am not smart enough to be 
called your granddaughter. 

Mrs. Gkey. But, Nellie, the idea of cambric! What 
would — 

Nellie. It is no use, old miss, to argue the question. 
You know that every body in the village is aware of your 
high notions about things ; because, if you are poor, you are 
as proud as Lucifer. 

Mrs. Grey. I have reason to be proud, for — 

Nellie. O, yes ; I know the blood of a host of heroes 
flows in your veins and in mine ; and for that very reason 
the people will never imagine that your granddaughter 
would wear a glazed cambric. I am sure that our aristo- 
cratic blood, and the real lace will put me through this 
evening. But I must go to work if I have to perform such 
wonders. [Takes up the Swiss skirt; begins to measure off 
the widths of the green cambric.'] 

( Curtain falls.) 



SCENE II. 

Kobbs's parlor. Miss Susan seated, engaged in cutting quilt- 
pieces. Enter Julia Hosxins. 

Julia. Good morning, Miss Susan. How do you feel 
after last night's dissipation ? 

Miss Susan. Why, Miss Julia, is that you ? Do have a 
seat, and let me compliment you on the success of your 
party. It was splendid! The tables were so beautiful. 
Every tody said it excelled any thing of the kind that was 
ever in this town ; and you, too, Miss Julia, I never did see 
you look so well. Indeed, I feel highly honored to be en- 
tertaining the belle of the place. 

Julia. O, Miss Susan, you flatter me. [Takes seat.] Do 
not call me a belle after the sensation Nellie Dale made last 
evening. 



THE PEA-GREEN GLAZED CAMBRIC. 103 

Miss Susan. Lack a day ! Miss Julia, did you notice the 
way she was dressed ? A real fine new green glace silk ! 

Julia. Notice ! I think I did ! It is a shame for Nellie 
Dale to wear such a dress when her poor old grandmother 
has to work so hard. It must have cost upward of fifty 
dollars. Did you look at that lace i 

Miss Susan. I guess I did, and took hold of it too ; and 
was just going to feel the quality of the silk, but she felt 
me pulling at the lace, and she jerked away from me as if 
I had been a rattlesnake; and such a look! 

Julia. I wonder ! Miss Susan, you know people say that 
my father is rich, but I can not afford such a dress as that. 
and if I could I would n't. She looked for all the world 
just like a stage actress. 

Miss Susan. I do wonder where she got it, for there 
are n't a piece of silk like that in this town ; for I know 
what is in all the stores. Well, now, maybe Mrs. Stuart 
gave it to her. You know she is a great favorite with Mrs. 
Stuart. 

Julia. That would be worse than ever. If I had to go 
to parties in charity clothes, I "d stay at home forever. But 
she is so anxious to catch that young lawyer that I suppose 
she would raise heaven and earth to get a dress for the 
party. I, like a simpleton, told her he would be there, and 
I judge she thought to take him by storm. 

Miss Susan. Old Mrs. Grey is monstrous proud, and I 
guess she had a hand in it. You know she sets up for 
aristocracy. 

Julia. O, yes. her family is good; but. law, she is as 
poor as dirt, and blood is nothing these days without 
money. 

Miss Susan. That 's a fact ; and I guess you are right 
about her wanting to catch Jim Stuart for a husband ; for I 
never did see any body as frisky as Nellie Dale was last 
night. I can't tell you the times I tried to feel of that 
dress, just to see the quality of the silk, and I do be- 
lieve she "smelt a rat," for, as sure as I got close to her, 
just that sure she 'd commence skipping about like a wild 
deer. I tell you, she were n't still one minute. 

Julia. Yes. and I know Mr. Stuart was disgusted with 
her. 

Miss Susan. I 'd say ! 



104 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Julia. Why, she just as good as asked him to go home 
with her. 

Miss Susan (clasps her hands). You do n't tell me. Miss 
Julia, that Nellie Dale asked a young man to go home with 
her \ 

Julia. She had just as well said, straight out, Mr. Stu- 
art, please go home with me, as to have asked as she did. 

Miss Susan. What are we all coming to ! What did she 
do ? [Small dell rings outside.'] 

Julia. He was conversing with me, as he had been try- 
ing to do all the evening, whenever Nellie Dale let him 
alone, and he appeared very much interested in the conver- 
sation, when, just at the most engaging point, up she comes, 
as brazen as you please, and said: "Mr. Stuart, I am ready." 
He looked at her like he could look her through, and said : 
"Do you wish to go home? 1 ' and do n't you think she took 
his arm and led him off. 

Miss Susan. Now, Miss Julia ! and what did you say ? 

Julia. I had nothing to say. I could have boxed her 
jaws ; and I know Mr. Stuart felt ashamed of her behavior. 
But if I had I might have [bell rings again, louder] rubbed 
off some of the paint from her cheeks. I tell you, she is a 
fast one. But she is n't fast enough for me. I will knock 
all the sand from under her arrangements. See if I do n't. 

Miss Susan. O, Miss Julia, you will make me laugh for 
a week to come ; you are so funny. 

Enter James Stuart. 

James. Excuse me, ladies, for interrupting so interesting 
a tete-a-tete, but I rang the bell several times, and as you 
seemed to wish not to be disturbed, I would have retired, 
but my aunt, Mrs. Stuart, was particularly anxious that you, 
Miss Hobbs, should receive this little package. [Hands 
Miss Susan a bundle.] I believe it is something for the 
charity school. She said you would know all about it. 

Miss Susan. O, yes, I understand it. Tell Mrs. Stuart I 
am very much obliged to her. But do have a seat. Just 
think of my keeping you standing at the door so long. But 
you must excuse it, for Miss Julia here made herself so in- 
teresting that I forgot every thing else. 

James. I'll excuse you, certainly, knowing Miss Ras- 
kins 1 s fascinations in conversation. [Bows.] 



THE PEA-GREEN GLAZED CAMBRIC. 105 

Julia (looks confused). O, Mr. Stuart ! 

Miss Susan. And you listened to all we said ? Ha ! ha ! 
that is a good joke. You know, Mr. Stuart, ladies will be 
gossip ers when they get together. 

James. I did listen, Miss Hobbs, but assure you I was an 
unwilling listener. It was purely accidental; you would 
'not be made conscious of my presence. And, as long as I 
heard a part of your conversation, allow me, Miss Hoskins, 
to correct you on one point. You were mistaken about Miss 
Dale asking me to accompany her home. I had previously 
engaged myself to take her home whenever she was ready 
to go, and begged her to inform me when it was -her wish 
to retire. So, you will perceive, she did not "as good as 
ask nle. ,, 

Julia (tosses lier head.) It makes no difference to me 
whether she did or not. It is so much like her that I 
thought it very probable. She has a very strange dis- 
position. 

James. She appeared to me to be witty, agreeable, ac- 
complished, and is a charming dancer. 

Julia. What a string of wonderful traits ! Please, Mr. 
Stuart, spare my nerves. You almost stun me. 

James. Indeed ! My presence has the same effect, then, 
upon you that Miss Nellie Dale's has upon me. 

Julia. I had given you credit for more brains than you 
seem to possess. I see that Miss Dale has blinded you with 
her arts already. 

James. Her devotion to her aged grandmother is a proof 
at least of her amiability. 

Julia. Yes, when she calls her "old miss! " 

James. That is one of the proofs of her affection. It is 
the wish of her grandmother that she should call her "old 
miss." She learned it from the servants when a child, and 
Mrs. Grey prefers the title, if I may call it such. 

Julia. Servants ! They never had but one old negro, 
and she is dead now. But I have n't time to discuss Miss 
Dale's amiability or her pedigree. Remember, I warn you 
in time. She is a flirt! So, good morning. [Starts.] 

James. You will permit me to see you home ? 

Julia. O, certainly. I will be glad of your company. 
Good-by, Miss Susan. Come and see us. 

Miss Susan. And you come again, Miss Julia. I suppose 



106 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

I may look for you, Mr. Stuart, when your aunt sends an- 
other package. [Tries to look sentimental.'] 

James. I shall be the bearer of it with pleasure. 

[Exeunt James and Julia.] 

Miss Susan. I never like to hear the kettle call the pot 
black. If Julia Hoskins didn't do the same thing she ac- 
cused Nellie Dale of doing, I ain't here ! She as good as 
asked that young man to gallant her home; for if she 
did n't start home first just to make him go with her, I 
do n't know nothing. If I had been in her place, I would 
have sat here till judgment-day before I would have started 
first. He would have served her right if he had stayed 
here with me instead of gallanting her, but young men are 
so blinded to their own interests. They must be eternally 
running after some young giddy thing that knows no more 
about keeping house and raising a family than a "hog 
knows about holiday!" Well! well! there's only this 
world and one more, and then we are done! 

{Curtain falls.) 



SCENE HI. 

Mrs. Stuart and James Stuart seated in a neatly -furnished, 
apartment; Mrs. Stuart employed in some light needle- 
work. 

Mrs. Stuart. James, come tell me about Miss Hoskins's 
birthday party. Did you enjoy it? 

James. More, dear aunt, than I usually do at such places. 
Miss Nellie Dale is a charming girl. 

Mrs. Stuart. I wish you could think well enough of 
Nellie to ask her to be your wife ; that is, if she would re- 
ceive you as a suitor. 

James. There was but one thing that prevented my pro- 
posing to her last evening. 

Mrs. Stuart. What? 

James. Her dress. 

Mrs. Stuart. You surely, James, could not think less of 
a young lady because she is not able to dress elegantly. I 
know you are fastidious, but I never thought you so weak- 
minded as to allow a plain dress to influence you in the 



THE PEA-GREEN GLAZED CAMBRIC. 107 

choice of a wife. You should respect her more for her 
economy. 

Jambs. Economy ! you do not know what you are talk- 
ing about. She was the most expensively-dressed lady in 
the room last evening, and it was this extravagance and 
apparent want of thought for her grandmother that kept 
me silent. She can not have a good heart if she can spend 
that old lady's hard earnings on finery, and this she must 
have done to be dressed as she was last night. Why, she 
looked like a queen ! 

Mrs. Stuart. You astonish me. James. Nellie Dale has 
but one party-dress, a white muslin. This I know. "What 
kind of a dress did she wear to Miss Hoskins's party ? 

James. A magnificent green silk, trimmed in rich lace 
and ribbons. I noticed particularly, because my heart was 
in the matter. 

Mrs. Stuart. You mistook her for Julia Hoskins. Nel- 
lie has no such dress as you describe. If she had I am con- 
fident I would know it. You have made some mistake. 

James. Aunt, I tell you I went home with her. How 
could I be mistaken ? 

Mrs. Stuart. O, I forgot. You told me before. 

James. And I took her into supper, danced with her, 
and promenaded all with this same green silk dress. 

Mre. Stuart. And that dress prevented you from pro- 
posing? 

James. It did. 

Mis. Stuart. I am still not convinced. There is a mys- 
tery somewhere. Wait till I test the matter. [Rings a dell.] 
I shall not be satisfied until I see for myself. [Enter a small 
servant.] Go to Mrs. Grey's and ask Miss Nellie Dale to be 
kind enough to let me see the fine green silk she wore to 
Miss Hoskins's party last evening. 

Servaxt. Yes. imi. [Exit Servant.] 

Mrs. Stuart. Now we will see the true state of the case. 
If what you say is true, I can never respect Nellie as I have 
heretofore; but it can not be. She is so thoughtful always 
about her old grandmother ; so self-sacrificing. 

James. I do not dispute all this, but what I tell you is 
true. I hope there is something that will clear up the mys- 
tery, and that we may find her internal as pure and beauti- 
ful as her exterior appeared last night, for I do assure you 



108 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

she is very fascinating. [Looks toward the window or door.] 
But hero comes Doxy full tilt. Perhaps she can tell us 
something cheering. I see that Miss Nellie has not trusted 
her with the dress. But here is Doxy; let her speak for her- 
self. 

[Enter Bom.] 

Mrs. Stuart. Well, where is the dress ? 

Doxy. Miss Nellie say she ain't got no green silk. She 
say she wish she did.* 

Mrs. Stuart. I told you to ask her for the dress she 
w x ore last night, you stupid creature ! 

Doxy. Waal I did, and she say she never wore no green 
silk to the party. 

Mrs. Stuart. What can it mean ? You did not tell her 
what I said, I know. 

Doxy. Yes 'urn, I 'clare I tell her, and she say she wish 
she did hab a green silk for to look at herseff. 

Mrs. Stuart. I am more and more puzzled. 

James. And I am sorry that w T hat Doxy says goes to 
prove that Miss Nellie is trying to cover her extravagance 
by deceit. I am sorry, indeed, I repeat. [Looks toward the 
ioindow.~] But, as I live, there is Miss Nellie now, tripping 
along, looking as gayly and bright as if she had never been 
guilty of a deceitful action in her whole life ! 

Doxy. Dat was w T hat she say. She say she was comin' 
herseff to tell you all about it. 

Mrs. Stuart. Why did n't you tell this before ? 

Doxy. 'Kase you never axed me. 

Mrs. Stuart (to James.) I want you to step into the 
other room before Nellie gets here. You can overhear all 
we say, and if she does not vindicate herself then I'll give 
up that she is not a wife worthy of my nephew. 

James. If you insist, dear aunt ; but I confess I have the 
luck of having to listen to ladies' conversations. 

Mrs. Stuart (excitedly). Quick, James — she is coming ! 

[Exit James.] 
Enter Nellie. 

Nellie (throws herself on a chair). My dear Mrs. Stuart, 
I came over to make you an explanation, as you deserve it. 
It is due you as my friend. 

* Pronounced deed. 



THE PEA-GREEN GLAZED CAMBRIC. 109 

Mrs. Stuart. Excuse ine. Nellie, if by sending for your 
dress I have — 

Xellle. Xo apologies from you now. I will tell you 
the "unvarnished truth" without preliminaries. Yesterday 
I was in despair at having nothing to wear to Miss Hos- 
dns's party. My white muslin was threadbare. What to 
do I did not know, when grandpa's old India chest oc- 
curred to me. You know it has been the receptacle of odds 
and ends for years, and in our palmiest days revealed many 
a rich treasure in the way of foreign silks, and so forth : 
but. alas I on searching through it. even to the very bottom. 
I could find nothing but a piece of pea-green glazed mrribrie, 
which I made into a dress, and covered it so completely 
with some fine old lace that was once my mother's, that 
every one thought it was silk. Some rich ribbon from the 
same source completed my costume. And now I have con- 
fided to you the secret. Do not expose my poverty, for — 

Mrs. Stuart. I think your ingenuity and taste deserves 
commendation, and you are entitled to — 
Enter Javdes. 

James. My love and admiration. Miss Xellie. Can you 
ever forgive me for doubting your sincerity \ 

Xellle (rises, surprised). Mr. Stuart ! were you a list- 
ener to my — 

Mrs. Stuart. Nellie! [Comes forward toward Nellie.] 
Nellie, it is myself, and not my nephew, who is to blame 
for his being a listener to our conversation. I was determ- 
ined he should hear your vindication from your own lips. 
You had been accused of extravagance and ingratitude, and 
I knew the charge was false. 

Zs ellte. I am satisfied : but — 

James {interrupting Znellle). I am not satisfied, and 
never will be. Xellie [takes her hand], until you are Mrs. 
James Stuart. 

Xellte. 0, but grandma. Mrs. Stuart [looks at Mrs. 
Stuart], it is so sudden. [Loolcs down, confused.] 

Ja^ies. O. my little Xellie. if you are calling upon 
grandma and Mrs. Stuart. I know where I stand; and I 
shall always remember The Pea-green Glazed Cambric. 
as it has been the cause of making me the happiest man 
alive. 

(Curtain falls.) 



110 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



THE ELOPEMENT. 



CHARACTERS. 

Nora, Daughter of Mr. Courtney. 
Maria, Cousin to Nora. 
Aunt Mary, Sister to Mr. Courtney. 
Lillian, a Gay, Fashionable Girl. 

Agnes, a Servant. 



SCENE I. 



Room. Nora seated near a table reading a letter. She folds 
it, then opens it, rises, walks to and fro. 

Nora. To-day is Christmas. O, how different from this 
time a year ago ; then I was happy, now I am miserable ! 
[Clasps her hands.] It is a fearful thing to be in love, and 
to think my fondest hopes can not be realized. [Sighs ; 
seats herself and reads the letter.] 

Enter Lillian. 

Lillian. Why, Nora, what ails you? Your face is as 
long as the moral law. I see you have a letter. Any bad 
news ? 

Nora. No, Lillian, but I am miserable ! 

Lillian. Miserable! What can make a girl of your 
wealth miserable ? 

Nora. Lillian, were you ever in love ? 

Lillian. Ha ! ha ! A thousand times ! 

Nora. O, how can you be so thoughtless ? No person 
can love but once. 

Lillian. You silly girl, without joking, I have been in 
love at least one dozen times. Let me see. [Looks down 
thoughtfully.'] There was Joe Smallacres, a dandy little 
fellow, my first love. He used to pass up and down the 
street in sight of my window when I went to school in New 



THE ELOPEMENT. Ill 



York, and would lay Ms hand so [mimics ItimX and look so 
woe-begone, and at last succeeded in sending me a love-letter 
by one of the ••helps;" but the monitress intercepted the 
missive, and thus blasted all Ms hopes ; for I was reported, 
of course, and only escaped the public disgrace of being 
expelled by promisMg, with tears in my eyes, never to en- 
courage Mr. Sinallacres's attentions while I remained an 
inmate of the Young Ladies 1 Seminary; and I shall ever 
feel grateful to dear Mrs. Rigid for her timely interference, 
as this same fellow Joe, my first love, is at Sing-Sing, work- 
ing out a felon's term for stealing money frorn "the old 
Governor." as he affectionately dubbed bis father. Then 
there was handsome Ben Crossfield. with his adorable mus- 
tache ; and Edward DeCourcy. too ; his name was enough of 
itself to turn my head. Mercy ! how I did love him : but — 

Xora (impatiently). O. Lillian, you are such a rattle- 
brain, /never could love but one! 

Lilliax. You 11 get over that. I have had it. and it 
will not hurt you. But are you really in love \ ~Xora 
looks down; tic iris the letter and sighs. Aside.] I do believe 
the girl is touched. [Approaches Xora.] Come, Nora, tell 
me all about it. Who is the favored smtor of the young 
heiress ? 

Xora. I am afraid to tell you. 

Lilliax. Do you doubt me \ 

Xora. Xo. I can trust you ; but I am afraid of your 
ridicule. 

Lilliax. Lay aside your scruples, dear Xora. I never 
ridicule my friends. I must know the name of your hero. 

Xora. Well, then, it is Clarence Orfield ! 

Lilliax (raises her hands in surprise). The exquisite! I 
loved him once myself. Poor Xora ! 

Xora. What do you mean ? 

Lilliax. I mean just tMs. that, with all Clarence Or- 
field's pretensions, he is a humbug ! 

Xora {deprecortngly). 0, Lillian! 

Lilliax. It is all a fact. Mr. Oriield wears inimitable 
whiskers, dresses unexceptionably. and sports the darlingest 
little cane, but — 

Xora (impatiently). But what? 

LiLLLix. Why, simply that he is not worth the powder 
and shot that would kill him. 



112 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Nora (angrily). I clo not thank you for speaking in this 
manner. Mr. Orjielcl is a gentleman ! 

Lillian (carelessly). If fine clothes and a clashing out- 
side constitute a gentleman, then he is one. But, you know, 
he is dissipated, and has already squandered the property 
left him by his father. The greatest curse, in nine cases 
out of ten, that can befall a young man, is to inherit a for- 
tune. It has made a profligate and gambler of Clarence 
Orneld. 

Nora. I do not believe it. He told me that all these 
reports about him were vile slander, created to set my 
father against him. If you knew how I love him you 
would not talk so. 

Lillian. Love, indeed. No doubt you think you love 
him; but it is impossible for any true woman to even 
respect, much less love, such a man. And, aside from all 
this, you are too young to many. 

Nora. I will be sixteen next May, and many girls marry 
at that age. 

Lillian. And but for Mrs. Rigid's kindly interference 
I would have been now a miserable victim. I was just six- 
teen when she warned me of the evil consequences of an 
ill-assorted marriage. I shudder now when I think of the 
awful fate she averted, and will always thank God that 
such a noble and exalted woman had the care of my early 
education. 

Nora. Plague take "Mrs. Rigid" and "early educa- 
tion." I know plenty of women who were married young 
and are happy. Look at Mrs. Greenleaf, and she was only 
fifteen, 

Lillian. She is one in a thousand. Besides, she has a 
model husband; he is more like a father than a husband. 
He is a gentleman and a good man. 

Nora. Yes, and Clarence is good, too. {Takes a minia- 
ture from Iter pocJcet ; hands it to Lillian.] Look on that 
face, and say is it not angelic ? Could a cross word ever 
pass such lips? [Lillian looks at picture.'] 

Lillian. O, Nora, you are sickening ! I am sorry this 
thing has happened. Does your father know it ? 

Nora. Yes, and has forbid my meeting Clarence, or 
speaking to him — a command I can not find it in my heart 
to obey. 



1 



THE ELOPEMENT. 113 



Lillian. Your father is right. He knows the wily for- 
tune-hunter. 

Nora. Some one has prejudiced my father against him. 
I am fully convinced that a better acquaintance would 
change his opinion of Clarence. 

Lillian. Nora, let me entreat you not to hold any sort 
of communication with this man. 

Nora. You are highly set up, giving advice. You are 
but little older than myself. 

Lillian. I know this ; but I am old enough to know 
that it takes something beside a handsome face and fine 
figure to make a woman happy. 

Nora. You speak sagely. To hear you one would think 
you had had a lifetime experience. 

Lillian. I shall never marry until I can find a man I 
can trust. 

Nora. You may be deceived, after all. 

Lillian. True. One thing is certain, however, I will 
study the character of the man I choose, and if I find that 
he makes his living by gambling, as Clarence Orfield does, 
you may be sure I will drop him, to use a vulgarism, u like 
a hot potato!" 

Nora {contemptuously) . What a pattern of prudence! 

Lillian. You may sneer, Nora, but I know Mr. Clarence 
Orfield. He courts every pretty girl he sees, but intends to 
marry for money, and he has singled you out as a victim. 
Listen to my warning. Avoid this man as you would a 
pestilence, for nothing but misery can result from a connec- 
tion with him. I do hope something will occur to thwart 
his base designs. [Exit Lillian.] 

Nora (looks after Lillian). Humph! She would make 
a good tragedy queen. I see I can not trust her. If she 
finds out that I am going to elope with Clarence, she will 
betray me. But what must I do ? I can not get out of the 
house at midnight without using stratagem. [Looks toward 
the door.] But here comes cousin Maria; I'll find out her 
sentiments, and if I can enlist her in my behalf all will be 
well. [ Conceals the letter and picture.'] 

Enter Maria. 

Maria. O, I have had so much fun ! I got up at day- 
light and knocked at my uncle's door so loud that I roused 

10 



114 • ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

him out of his morning's nap, and he was as mad as blazes. 
But I claimed my Christmas gift ! 

Nora. And pray, what did he give you ? 

Maria. Nothing yet; but he has promised me a gold 
pen and a portfolio. You see I intend, some day, to be an 
authoress. 

Nora. You an authoress? 

Maria. Yes, indeed ; but you ought to hear uncle laugh 
at the idea of my being an authoress. I have not seen him 
laugh as heartily since the time I told him about Clarence 
Orfield mating love to me ! 

Nora (starts). Clarence Orfield make love to you! 

Maria. Why not? Am I so frightful? But law! did 
I never tell you about it ? 

Nora (sharply). No! 

Maria. O, it was too funny ! Do you remember when 
uncle took me over to Mr. Todd's ? 

Nora. Why, that was six months ago. 

Maria. To be sure ; and when we got there who should 
be in the parlor but Mi*. Clarence Orfield ? I was introduced 
to the exquisite, of course; and when we all went into the 
conservatory Mr. Orfield gathered a handsome bouquet, and, 
as we were returning to the house, he said, as he handed 
me the flowers, "Miss Courtney, these rose-buds are like 
yourself, young and beautiful, and this sprig of box speaks 
the language of my heart — constancy !" 

Nora {indignantly). You are making every word of 
this ! 

Maria. Indeed, I am not. But this was not half. Listen, 
Nora. \Ta~kes Nora by the arm.'] He threw himself into a 
theatrical attitude and said: "I love you dearly, Miss Court- 
ney; but perhaps you do not believe in love at first sight? " 

Nora. Mr. Orfield did not say this to you ? 

Maria. O, but he did ; and I would have been covered 
with confusion, for I never had a gentleman to compliment 
me before, but I saw what he was after. 

Nora (eagerly.) How? 

Maria. Why, he thought I was you ! 

Nora (releasing herself from Maria's hold). How do you 
know he did ? 

Maria. Because, would you believe it ? I laughed in his 
face, and I said: "Mr. Orfield, I, think you are caught!" 



THE ELOPEMENT. 115 



His face turned very red. and lie asked how. "Why,' 1 re- 
plied I. ••you have mistaken me for Miss Nora Courtney. 
the great heiress. I am nothing but a poor niece of my 
uncle, dependent upon his bounty." 

Xora. TVhat did he say \ 

Mabia. He said he thought Mrs. Todd introduced me as 
Miss Courtney. "So she did." said I "but don't I tell 
you I am a poor relation of Miss Courtney;" Only think 
of the fellow's impudence ! He tried to laugh, and said he 
knew all the time who I was. but he wanted to see how I 
would bear a little flirtation. This made me indignant, and 
I told him he could not deceive me. for I knew it was my 
uncle's money, and not my uncle's daughter, that he wanted. 

Xora. How could you be so rude I 

Maria. Rude, indeed ! If I had been a man I would 
have given the little dandy a good thrashing ! As it was. 
my tongue was the only weapon I could use. 

Nora. It was all a joke on the part of Mr. Orneld to 
quiz you. But suppose he had been in earnest, would you 
not have loved him \ 

Maria. Why, Xora ! Love Clarence Orneld \ 

Xora. Why not \ He is very handsome. 

Maria. He is handsome, but such a villain ! 

Xora. How do you know \ 

Maria. Because uncle told me that he was a designing 
villain, and I heard him tell Lillian that he would rather 
see you dead than to see you the wife of as base a man as 
Clarence Orneld ! But I told uncle he need not fear, for I 
am sure you have too much sense to be gulled by a shallow- 
pated fortune-hunter. But I must go. You are so dry. 
Xora. and I am not half done catching Christinas gifts. 

[Eodt Maria. ~ 

Xora. And Maria, too. is against me! Agnes is now the 
last chance. Though she is a servant, she is a shrewd girl, 
and I know will assist me. I must go and pack my trunk 
and be ready at the appointed time. Clarence is to meet 
me at midnight. 0. how my heart beats ! [Goes out.] 

(Curtain falls.) 



116 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



SCENE II. 

A period of three years has elapsed. Same apartment. Nora 
seated in an arm-chair ; Tier face pale and sorrowful. 

Nora (tools around). How strange, and yet how fa- 
miliar every thing looks to me here ! After an absence of 
three years to find myself again in the house where my in- 
fancy was cradled! But there is one object I look for in 
vain — my father ! O, my father ! And the bitterest pang 
is that I did not receive his forgiveness before his lips were 
closed in death ! [Leans hack in the chair \ covers her face 
with a handler chief.'] 

Enter Aunt Mary. 

Auxt Mary {draws a chair close to Nora and seats her- 
self). Now, my dear Nora, I am at leisure to hear your 
wonderful story. I am interested in all that concerns you ; 
but be as brief as possible, as you are very weak. 

Nora (takes handkerchief from her face.) I will try, in as 
few words as possible, to give you an account of the life I 
led after I left this house. It is almost needless to say that, 
with the assistance of Agnes, I tied from the home of my 
childhood on that fatal night, without interruption, and 
Mr. Orfield received me at the carriage in an ecstas}' of joy — 
joy which I foolishly supposed was occasioned by love for 
me. We were married, and the day following he urged 
me to write a conciliatory letter to my father. I did so. 
The letter was returned, unanswered and unopened. Mr. 
Orfield seemed perplexed, and paced the room in great agi- 
tation. After a while he became more calm and said to 
me: "I reckon the old fellow will relent when his passion 
is over!" I had never heard my father spoken of disre- 
spectfully, and at that moment I felt a peculiar veneration 
for him, and I said: "If you wish me to love you, Clarence, 
you must not speak in this manner of my father. " He 
mumbled out something about not wishing to be catechised 
by a woman, and left the apartment. The next day I re- 
ceived a note from my father, stating that if I would per- 
mit him to get a divorce he would forgive and receive me, 
but that he would never allow such a man as Clarence Or- 
field to become a member of his family. 



THE ELOPEMENT. 117 

Aunt Mary. And why did you not accede to the propo- 
sition ? 

Nora. Because Clarence had completely mesmerized me. 
I was totally blind to his faults, and believed he married 
me for love ; besides, he kept up a show of affection, think- 
ing my father would relent, I had not been married long 
before I discovered that Clarence did make his living by 
gambling. His humors were governed by his success at 
play. Whenever he won he was in glee ; if unsuccessful, 
his temper was terrible. When he became convinced that 
my father would not give him any money, he said he could 
not afford the expense of a city boarding-house, and re- 
moved me to a small house in the country, where I remained 
a long time without many of the necessaries of life. 

Aunt Mary. Poor child ! 

Nora. He would often leave me for days in this lonely 
place, and what I suffered from fear and anxiety words can 
not tell ; and even when he was with me he was so ill-na- 
tured that, but for the fear of being left alone with only 
one servant, his absence would have been a relief. Some 
time after this he took me to Radway, a town where he 
wished to attend the races, and placed me in an indifferent 
boarding-house. He paid me little or no attention, and yet, 
so great was my partiality, I would make excuses for him, 
until, one day, I overheard a conversation between him and 
a dashing young man who boarded at the same house. I 
was seated at my window, which overlooked a grass-plat 
and rude arbor underneath. He and this Granville were 
smoking, and I heard Granville ask him why he did not 
introduce his wife into society? Clarence answered: "The 
truth is I do n't want to show her. She is plain, and she 
was nothing more than a school-girl when I took up with 
her." "I think," replied Granville, -'you underrate Mrs. 
Orfield. I have seen her several times, and she is graceful 
in her movements, and I would like to know her. She 
seems very much in love with her husband/ 1 "O, well," 
said Clarence. "I will introduce you. You certainly ad- 
mire her more than I do, for indeed I have no affection 
for her, and in fact never had any. Her father was a 
rich old fool, and I, being over head and ears in debt, 
with the sheriff at my heels, married the creature solely 
for her money." 



118 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Aunt Mary. The perjured villain! 

Nora. I thought 1 would faint, but nerved myself to 
listen, and he continued: "The old fellow has never given 
me a cent, and refuses to see his daughter unless she con- 
sents to a divorce ; and this I would insist upon, for I am 
tired of looking at her pale face, but I have a lingering 
hope that the old governor will shell out yet!" I coulcl 
hear no more, but rose from the window, and, flinging my- 
self upon the bed, found some relief in tears. My eyes 
were at last open to the true character of my husband, and 
my love was that instant turned to hate. I did not tell him 
that I overheard the conversation. A few days afterward 
he proposed introducing me to Granville, and I indignantly 
declined. They both left Eadway next day upon a gam- 
bling expedition. I then wrote to my father, acceding to 
his proposition, and begging his forgiveness, but never re- 
ceived an answer. 

xVunt Mary. He never got that letter. He would have 
rejoiced in receiving you on the conditions mentioned. 

Xora. I then lost all hope. After my husband's return 
he entered my room highly excited, and, throwing a news- 
paper in my lap, exclaimed, " There I your rascally old 
father has pegged out, leaving you a shilling for a dowry, 
and hereafter you may shift for yourself, for I 'm cursed if 
I maintain you ! " I did not comprehend him at first, but 
too soon the paragraph met my e} T es, announcing the sud- 
den cleath of my beloved father. I gave a shriek and 
fainted. I can never forget the agony of the moment when 
I recovered. I had lived in the hope of one day meeting 
my father's forgiving smile. I cared not for the loss of 
fortune. The world was to me a blank ! I forgot to tell 
you that Clarence was gone, no one knew where. About 
ten days after my father's death Mr. Orfield returned ; but, 
O, how changed ! His spirit was cowering under some dire- 
ful disease. I exerted myself and rendered him all the 
assistance of which I was capable. He grew worse and 
worse, and it was then that I wrote to you. I nursed him 
eight days faithfully ; the ninth he died. I was of course 
miserable and destitute, and was almost in despair, as the 
funeral procession of my husband moved from the door. 
Just then your carriage drove up, and I knew you had re- 
ceived mv letter. You know the rest. 



THE ELOPEMENT. 119 



Enter- Agnes. 

Agnes. Miss Mary, there is a lady below wants to see you. 

Aunt Mary {rising). Calm yourself, child. I will return 
directly. [Exit Aunt Mary." 

Agnes. Law. Miss Nora, is that you? I'm so glad to 
see you. [Approaches Xora.] TVe had rare times that 
morning after you run off to be married. Your father and 
Miss Maria found out. somehow, that I had a hand in it. 
and they told me to pack my things and move. Well. Bill 
Howard, my sweetheart, thought this was rough treatment 
after I had helped you off so kind, and so he said I was not 
dependent on the Courtneys. and so he married me right 
away. So. you see. I killed two birds with one stone — got 
a husband for you and one for myself. But. law. they do 
tell me poor Mr. Orfield — 

Xora (nervously). Don't mention his name! I am 
thinking of my poor father. My conduct was the death of 
him. [Clasps Iter hards and weeps.] 

Agxes. 0, miss, do n't say that. Every body knows Mr. 
Courtney died with the pneumonia, and you had no hand 
in killing him. He wanted to see you when he was sick, 
and would have sent for you, but nobody knew where to 
rind you. 

Nora. 0, Agnes, I would give worlds to recall that 
night when — 

Agnes. Yes ! yes ! you did do wrong, but I could not 
see it then. It 's a dreadful feeling to do a wrong thing 
that you can't undo. But it 's a warning to you. miss, not 
to marry again. When a woman gets fairly rid of one hus- 
band she is a born fool to marry another. 

Xora. Does your husband treat you ill? 

Agnes. W-e-1-1, I can't say exactly. But. miss, a hus- 
hand is one thing and a sweetheart another. 

Xora. What do you mean \ 

Agnes. Why, I mean what I say. Afore one is married 
the man is all politeness. When Howard was courting me. 
if I dropped my handkerchief, he would pick it up as quick 
as a wink ; and now. if I was to drop my head, he would n't 
turn on his heel to pick it up. Ah. miss, there is a mon- 
strous difference! I tell you. marrying isn't what folks 
think it is. 



120 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



Enter Aunt Mary and Maria. 

Maria (ajiproaches Nora). Dear cousin, welcome home 
again. [They embrace.] 

Nora. Would to heaven I had never left my home ! 

Maria. Do not indulge in vain regrets. You have 
youth, and will recover your health and see many happy 
da} T s. 

Nora. Never ! never ! The death of my father without 
his forgiveness is a sorrow that throws a shadow gloomy 
and dark over my soul! Life's glitter can never impart 
warmth to my desolate heart ! 

Maria. Come, dear Nora, away with such gloomy 
thoughts. You must live for the sake of surviving friends. 
An attorney is waiting below in the library, and your pres- 
ence is necessary. 

Nora. For what ? 

Aunt Mary. Your cousin here wishes to make over the 
right to your father's estate. 

Nora. Maria must not. It will be unjust. 

Maria. Rather say it would be unjust for me to keep 
that which is really yours. My dear uncle was afraid to 
leave the property to you lest your husband should squander 
it. Mr. Orfleld, was the object of his detestation, and not 
you, Nora. Your father left the property to me, feeling 
assured that you would get the benefit of all put in my 
hands. Therefore you must submit to my will. 

Nora. I can not allow you to do this. 

Maria. You can not prevent me. 

Nora. But you have a husband ? What will he say ? 

Maria. He thinks it highly improper for me to keep 
your estate, and wishes me to have it permanently secured 
to you. 

Nora. O, if Clarence had only been thus disinterested, 
how happy I might have been ! 

Maria. Come, no more words, cousin; let us go and 
settle this business. I wish you to be present. 

[Exeunt Nora. Maria, and Aunt Mary.] 

Agkes {coming forward). Well, well! just think, but a 
few years ago Miss Nora was as lively as a bird, and now 
how pale and sorrowful she looks ! They say that husband 
of hers did n't treat her well. I would n't have the sins of 



THE ELOPEMENT. 121 



men's treatment to their wives to answer for, no, not for 
the whole enduring world ! Howsomever, it is a warning 
to girls, and 'specially scliool-girls, not to many afore they 
gets an education ; and not to be haying beaux no way ; 
and not to be taking up with every man that talks love to 
them; and not to be running off to get married in general. 
For my part, if a woman could make up her mind, it is 
best, I do think, not to marry at all ! 

(Curtain falls.) 



COSTUMES. 



SCENE I. 

Nora. Dress of crimson silk velvet, trimmed in point lace ; 
pearl ornaments. In this scene Xoka should look as blooming 
and fresh as possible, so as to make the contrast (when she ap- 
pears in the last scenej as striking as possible. 

Lillian. Dress of Marie Louise silk, trimmed with blonde 
for a mazarine blue silk, trimmed with ermine); brilliant or- 
naments. This part should be sustained with life and gayety 
or spirit. 

Maria. Dress of gay-colored French merino, trimmed in 
black : coral ornaments. 

SCENE II. 

INToka. Dress of deep mourning ; a widow's cap on the 
head ; no ornaments. She presents in this scene a faded ap- 
pearance. This can be done by whitening the face well, and 
then apply faintly under the eyes a little burnt cork, and a 
few faint lines under the lower lip. For a better description 
refer to " the Sociables. " as in that book the u making up" of 
the various expressions requisite in stage acting is fully de- 
scribed. 

Auxt Malt. Home dress, suitable for a maiden lady. 

Mama. Dress, morning wrapper, open in front, fastened 
at the waist by heavy cord and tassel ; embroidered petticoat. 

Agnes. Dress, calico ; an apron of white, with pockets — 
as a white apron always suggests the idea of a chambermaid ; 
a jaunty muslin cap on the head. 



11 



122 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



MRS. VATICAN SMYTHE'S PARTY. 



CHARACTERS. 

Mrs. Vatican Smythe. 
Mrs. Petroleum. 
Mrs. Shoddy. 
Mrs. General Allfight. 
Mrs. Sally Browne. 
Aunt Peggy Lightfoot. 
Ladies in attendance. 



SCENE I. 



Room. A well-furnished chamber ; Mrs. Vatican Smythe 
standing before a mirror, in full party dress, arranging 
her toilet; throws a hoAr-brush down; indignantly ad- 
vances to front of stage. 

Mrs. Smythe. This is too bad ! Just to think I have in- 
vited all those fashionable people here this evening, and 
now I am to be mortified by the presence of old Aunt Peggy 
Lightfoot ! I do think it is an outrage ! She always comes 
at the very time I least want her. [Puts her hand to her 
head.] Let me see, I must fall upon some plan to prevent 
these fine folks from seeing her. It will never do for Mrs. 
Petroleum to meet her ; and Mrs. General Allfight is such a 
make-game, she would never be done talking of Aunt Peg- 
gy's peculiarities. O, I do think it is such a bore to have 
poor relations. [LooJcs toward the door.] But here comes 
the old lady now: I must try and compromise the matter 
with her in some way. 

{Enter Aunt Peggy ; starts with su?y?*ise as she looks at Mrs. 
Smythe.] 

Aunt Peggy. Sakes alive, how you are dressed ! You 
must be going to a party. 



MRS. VATICAN SMYTHE'S PARTY. 123 

Mrs. Smythe. Not exactly. I have only invited a few 
select friends to spend the evening with me. 

Aunt Peggy. 0, ho ! that 's the way of it. I thought 
the house looked mighty light as I drove up to the door, 
but I did n t dream about a party. Well, I come, then, just 
hi the nick of time ! « 

Mrs. Smythe (wincing). Y-e-s, but I did not think you 
cared about meeting fashionable people. 

Aunt Peggy. O, I've no objection to fashionable peo- 
ple, provided they do n't put on too many airs. Who is to 
he here ? 

Mrs. Smythe ('pretending to study). Let me see. There 
is Mrs. Petroleum, Mrs. General Airtight, and — O, I do not 
know how many. 

Aunt Peggy. And Sally Browne — of course she will be 
here? 

Mrs. Smythe (confused). W-e-1-1, n-o. You see, Aunt 
Peggy, Sally has a house full of little children, and it is not 
convenient for her to leave home at night. 

Aunt Peggy (excitedly). You don't tell me that Sally 
Browne is not invited — your own bom sister ! 

Mrs. Smythe (flays with her fan. and looks down). Aunt 
Peggy, you know Sally's circumstances, and that she is not 
able to dress much, and I knew that she had nothing fine 
enough to wear to meet Mrs. Petroleum and — 

Aunt Peggy (raises her Imnds indignantly). Jane Smythe, 
I am astonished at you, and did give you credit for some 
sense ; but I see that living in the city has made a plump 
fool of you ! Who is this Mrs. Petroleum ? 

Mrs. Smythe. Her husband is very wealthy. You know 
lie struck oil? 

AtmT Peggy (impatiently). No, I do n't know. Struck 
fiddlesticks ! I '11 warrant that Sally Browne has more sense 
in a minute than this up -start has in a year. 

Mrs. Smythe. Well, but you know we must all conform 
to circumstances. Mrs. Petroleum and Mrs. Shoddy, and all 
the other ladies who are coming here this evening, have tine 
houses in the upper part of the city, and they give elegant 
entertainments, and, in short, they are entirely out of Sally 
Browne's circle. 

Aunt Peggy. Yes, and I hope they will always stay out 
of her ''circle, 11 as you call it! I tell you, Jane, that your 



124 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

finical airs do n't suit me. It will be late in the clay when 
I throw off my own blood-kin because I am ashamed of 
them. 

Mrs. Smythe. I am not ashamed of Sally ; but I know 
she would feel mortified if these fashionable people were to 
see her, unless — 

Aunt Peggy {impatiently). Tut — nonsense! Do n't talk 
that way to me! I know you are ashamed of her, and the 
next thing will be that you are ashamed of me. But I must 
sit down, for I have been riding on the cars all day, and I 
am tired. 

Mrs. Smythe {offers a chair). Excuse me, Aunt Peggy, 
for I was so flurried when you came in that I did not think 
to ask you to be seated. [Aunt Peggy takes a seat.] You 
kn >w it always excites one to have company. 

Aunt Peggy. Having company never excites me, for I 
think what I can eat they can eat ; and if they do n't like it 
they can take the less of it. 

Mrs. Smythe. You will be very comfortable up here. I 
would ask you down in the parlor, but I know you prefer 
being alone. [Aside.'] I must flatter her, or she will sus- 
pect me. [To Aunt Peggy.] O, I have a present for you. 
[Goes to a drawer, takes out a dress-pattern.] See, I bought 
this for you some time ago. 

Aunt Peggy {takes dress and lays it across her lap). It 
is very pretty ; but I forgot to tell you that I came to the 
city to-day upon particular business, and I wanted to have 
a little private chat with you. 

Mrs. Smythe. Mercy, Aunt Peggy! this is no time for 
business. The ladies are waiting below for me, and you 
really must excuse me. Amuse yourself the best you can, 
and when they are all done eating I will send up for you, 
as I know you would rather eat at the second table. 

Aunt Peggy. O, yes, I see! you don't want an old- 
fashioned body like me to be seen at your table with the 
"quality" and I suppose you gave me the dress to pay me 
not to be seen. 

Mrs. Smythe. N-o-t exactly ! 

Aunt Peggy. Well, I promise on the word of an honest 
woman not to go into the dining-room while your fine folks 
are eating. 

Mrs. Smythe {aside). I am glad to hear that. [To Aunt 



MRS. VATICAN SMYTHE S PARTY. 1Z0 

Peggy.] Law ! I hope you do n't think that I feel ashamed 
of you? Bo try and be comfortable; I really must go 
down* . [Exit Mrs. Smythe.] 

Aunt Peggy. Hope I don't think that she feels ashamed 
of me ! I can see through a mill-stone as well as the man 
vdio pecks it. I have a mind to pitch this dress into the 
fire — but no. I will give it to Sally Browne. Ah, Mrs. Jane 
Vatican Smythe. you little know what brought your old 
aunt to tOYOi this day. But you will know soon enough. 
I have promised not to go in the dining-room, but I did not 
promise to stay out of the parlor. [Rises, walks to and fro.'} 
And I am to eat at the second table like a hireling. Well, 
[looks down,] I will, at any rate, change my gown, for who 
knows but I may yet see "Mrs. Petroleum" \ 

"Exit Aunt Peggy.] 

(Curtain falls.) 



SCENE II. 

Room decorated. Ladies promenading, conversing in p I - 

mime. Mrs. Smythe. Mrs. Petroleum. Mrs. Shoddy, and 
Mrs. General Allfight seated near the front of stage. 

Mrs. Smythe. I am afraid we will have a dull party, as 
all our husbands are absent. 

Mrs. Allfight. As the General says, it is like bread 
hoecake — so much of a sameness. 

Mrs. Shoddy. O, we '11 git along first-rate ; for my part 
I am glad they are not here, for I despise men. 

Mrs. Petroleum. I do, too: I think men is so hateful. 
[Fans.) 

Mrs. Allfight. That is just what the General says: 
despises men. but he likes the ladies. 

Mrs. Shoddy. The laws a me ! did you all hear about 
Miss Graham's little boy \ 

Mrs. Smythe. Xo ! " What ? 

Mrs. Shoddy. Why, he was burnt to death. 

Mrs. Smythe. How on earth did it happen ? 

Mrs. Shoddy. His clothes cotch a-fire somehow. 

Mrs. Allfight. As the General says, i: horrible.*' 

Mrs. Petroleum (fans herself and tosses her head). Yes. 



126 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

indeed; I ain't afeerd to die, but I always thought I'd 
hate to be burnt to death. 

Mrs. Shoddy. So would I. But, laws a me ! there is the 
Miller family that 'sin a sight of trouble. 

Mrs. Smythe. What is the matter ? 

Mrs. Shoddy. Matter enough. Then son John was killed 
on that steamboat that blowed up the other day. 

Mrs. Smythe. Shocking! 

Mrs, Allfight. The General says that is what comes of 
tubular boilers. 

Mrs. Petroleum. Yes, indeed. [Fans herself.'] I ain't 
afeerd to die, but I always thought I 'd hate to be blowed 
up in a tubureau boiler. 

Mrs. Shoddy. They do say John's death will kill his 
sister: the one that's got the consumption. But them 
Millers needed something to bring them down ; they be so 
awful stuck up. 

Mrs. Smythe. I am really sorry for the family, and that 
poor girl with consumption. 

Mrs. Allfight. The General says it is a dreadful disease. 

Mrs. Petroleum {fans Tier self). Yes, indeed. I ain't 
afeerd to die, but I always thought I 'd hate to have con- 
sumption ; it is sich a long, lingering disease. 

Mrs. Shoddy. And old man Miller has been struck with 
appleplexy, and that makes the matter worse. 

Mrs. Smythe. Misfortunes never come alone. 

Mrs. Allfight. That's exactly what the General says. 

Mrs. Petroleum. Yes, indeed. [Fans herself] I ain't 
afeerd to die, but I always thought I 'd hate to die with 
appeplexy, it is so suddent. 

Mrs. Smythe. Changing the subject, Mrs. Shoddy, where 
are your daughters ? 

Mrs. Shoddy. Laws a me ! we sent them off to school 
last fall. 

Mrs. Smythe. Where did you place them ? 

Mrs. Shoddy. Why, at Abbott's, of course. It 's the 
dearest school; but money is no object with us since Mr. 
Shoddy struck ile. 

Mrs. Petroleum {fans herself). That's so. 

Mrs. Smythe. How long will the girls remain ? 

Mrs. Shoddy. I can't tell exactly. We will let them 
graduate a year or two. 



MRS. VATICAN SMYTHE'S PARTY. 127 

Mrs. Smythe. I do not see how you can bear to be sep- 
i arated from them. [Enter Aunt Peggy Lightfoot behind 
Mrs. Smythe; walks slowly across the stage; peers at the 
company ~\ I really do — [Mrs. Smythe perceives Aunt 
Peggy ; screams ; falls from her chair ; Mrs. Shoddy sup- 
ports her.] 

(Curtain falls.) 



SCENE m. 

A plain room. Mrs. Sally Browne and Aunt Peggy seated 

near a table. 

Mrs. Browne. It is not possible that Jane Smythe treated 
you in this way ? 

Aunt Peggy. Yes, it is all true. I saw as soon as I got 
in the house that company was expected, and I would have 
come straight here ; but I wanted to test Jane Smythe, so I 
staid. As I told you, she gave me the dress to pay me for 
not going down to supper, so I determined to mortify her. 

Mrs. Browne. And you really went in the parlor, among 
all the fine folks ? 

Aunt Peggy. Yes, and a bull in a china-shop would not 
have kicked up a greater fuss. Jane fainted, and the bal- 
ance of the women squealed like so many young colts. 

Mrs. Browne (laughing). And what did you do? 

Aunt Peggy. Why, I staid till the servants took Jane 
off to bed and all the company went home ; and then I got 
one of the boys to bring my satchel, and I came over here. 

Mrs. Browne. And did none of the company eat supper ? 

Aunt Peggy. No ! Jane had fainted and was carried 
off, and every thing was helter-skelter. So the quality left 
in a hurry. 

Mrs. Browne. Jane will never forgive you, Aunt Peggy. 

Aunt Peggy. O, yes she will, when she finds out my 
business to the city. 

Mrs. Browne. And, pray, if it is not impertinent, what 
is your business ? 

Aunt Peggy. Nothing is impertinent from you, Sally, 
for you have always acted to me as a daughter, and, in spite 
of my old-fashioned notions, you have treated me with 



128 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

kindness and consideration, and yon are entitled to my con- 
fidence. I received a letter from England the day before I 
came to town, informing me that a great-uncle of mine has 
died, leaving me his sole heiress, and I am the mistress of 
seventy-five thousand pounds! 

Mrs. Browne {greatly surprised). Is it possible? 

Aunt Peggy. Yes, and I wanted to tell Jane of my good 
luck last night; but, no, she said it was no time to talk 
about business, and would not listen. 

Mrs. Browne. Perhaps she will be sorry she did not. 

Aunt Peggy. Yes ; but she will be still more sorry when 
she hears that I intend to give you the bulk of my property. 

Mrs. Browne {confused and surprised). O, Aunt Peggy! 

Aunt Peggy. Why not ? If Jane had acted as a genu- 
ine woman ought, I intended dividing the fortune equally 
between you, as she and yourself are all the near relations 
I have. As it is, I mean to give the greater part of it to 
you, and I'll warrant the next quality party she has you 
will be able to dress fine enough to meet all the Petroleums 
and Shoddies in the world. 

Mrs. Browne. But I feel sorry for Jane. She will be 
so disappointed when she knows all. 

Aunt Peggy. It will serve her right for acting like a 
silly, vain, light woman, as she is ; and I am in hopes it will 
teach her a lesson, and that is, not to despise plain, old- 
fashioned people because they are not used to the forms and 
customs of city life ; for many an honest heart beats under- 
neath the coarsest dress. 

{Curtain falls.) 



COSTUMES. 



Mrs. Smythe, Mrs. Petroleum, Mrs. Shoddy, and Mrs. 
Alleight. Dresses made in party style, elaborately trimmed: 
jewels, flowers, and feathers, to complete the costume. 

Ladies in Attendance. Dresses in party style. 

Aunt Peggy. In the first scene she is dressed in a coarse 
alpaca, the skirt narrow and short ; a cape of material differ- 
ing from the dress ; a very wide collar ; no hoops ; heavy 



MRS. VATICAN SMYTHE'S PARTY. 129 

shoes ; a sun-bonnet of gingham, to which is attached a long 
black lace veil; a reticule on her arm. In the second scene. 
Aunt Peggy wears an obsolete black satin dress; a cap with 
a very high crown, trimmed in bright ribbon; slippers ; reti- 
cule; spectacles; sports a large, old-fashioned fan, or a turkey- 
wing. In the last scene, Aunt Peggy is dressed as in first 
scene. 

Z\Irs. Browxe. Plain, but neat home dress. 

Children can be introduced in this scene, at the option of 
the teacher or manager of the play. 



130 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



THE PERFECTION OF BEAUTY. 

AN OPERA FOR FEMALE SCHOOLS. 



PART I. 



Enter the Nine Muses — Opening Gliorus of Muses. 
We are the loved Muses whose songs 

Can lighten the pressure of care ; 
To us the sweet mission belongs 

The spirit to soften and cheer. 
From ancient Parnassus we bring 

Soft melody, floating in air ; 
Of external beauty we sing, 

Of beauties both brilliant and fair. 
The kingdom of nature we greet, 

With all the rich treasures of time ; 
Variety making complete, 

From lowliest to the sublime. 
O, come from the green mountain side, 

The forest, and meadows so gay ; 
O, come from the blue ocean tide, 

O, come and respond to our lay. 

Enter the Sun — Solo, 
I come forth as a glorious king, 

In royal robes arrayed, 
With my crown of light, beaming bright, 

Of sparkling luster made. 
At midday I display my powers 

In majesty and might, 
Warming the earth with golden showers 

Of radiant heat and liglit ! 

At eventide I lay me down 

In a rich crimson vest, 
To dream of day in other climes, 

"While this good land may rest. 



THE PERFECTION OF BEAUTY. 131 

Chorus. 

Hail ! hail ! thou splendid orb of day. 

Traveling in thy might : 
Making all nature fresh and gay 

With lustrous heat and light. 

Enter the Rainbow — Solo. 

The Rainbow ! the Rainbow, arching high, 

Decking the brow of fhe evening sky 

With colors of gold and purple hue. 

And the naming crimson tinged with blue. 

Quite gracefully bending to display 

Its gorgeous tints, and then away — 

Away ! away I and nobody knows 

Where the bright, beautiful phantom goes ! 

Chorus of Muses. 

Lovely Rainbow, stay. 0. stay ! 

"Why so swiftly pass away ? 

Let us touch thy golden wing. [Exit Bainb 

See ! *t is gone ! the pretty thing. 

Enter the Stars — Chorus of Stars. 

We come ! we come ! the Stars with their light. 
Chasing the somber shadows of night. 
Dwelling on high, and seen from afar. 
All in the heavens — in the fresh air. 
Twinkling and smiling on all below. 
Greeting the flowers which nightly blow, 
While sportive zephyrs around them play. 
Kissing the dew from their leaves away. 

C fioras of Muses. 

"Welcome Stars, so gently gleaming. 

Thro* the misty veil of night. 
On our earth so kindly beaming. 

"With your soft and humid light. 
Like so many rays of glory. 

From your pure and native skies. 
And in ancient fabled story 

Thought to be the angel's eves. \Ekrit Stars.! 



132 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Enter the Birds — Clio rut of Birds. 

We are the songsters of Summer and Spring, 
So merry of heart, so light on the wing; 
In native costume, variously dressed, 
Too happy and free for cares to molest. 

All sportive in ether the live-long day, 
Or resting awhile on a leafy spray. 
And filling the air with music that floats 
On the breath of the gale in plaintive notes. 

Here 's the rich-colored bird of Paradise, 
And the turtle-dove, with its soft, black eyes ; 
And the lark, in the bright and morning sky, 
Resounding his Maker's praise on high. 

And the goldfinch, coming in early Spring ; 
And the canary, who doth joyously sing; 
The lively robin, with his cheerful notes ; 
And bluebirds, in pans, all tuning their throats. 

And the humming-bird, with its downy nest, 

As warm and as soft as an angel's breast ; 

The carrier-pigeon, so swift and so light ; 

The wood thrush, with song so clear in the night. 

Ghortis of Muses. 

Welcome ! O, welcome, ye bright, feathered throng, 
Who sip the pure air and revel in song : 

O, come from the hill, 

O, come from the rill, 
Come away from the dark forest trees ! 

O, come from the glade, 

All in the cool shade, 
Where the butterfly nits in the breeze ! 

Gome in broad day, ' 

With plumage so gay, 
Blithely skimming the heavens along ; 

Or come in the night, 

With the glow-worm bright : 
Thrice, thrice welcome, ye children of song — 
Thrice, thrice welcome, ye children of song ! 



THE PERFECTION OF BEAUTY. 133 

Solo — Genius of Beauty. 

See, all nature is blest, 
And how tastefully dressed, 

By the Maker of sea and of land ! 
From the green mountain high, 
To the small fire-fly, 

All made by His bountiful hand ! 

Chorus. 

The golden fish in the limpid tide, 
And the silver trout which nimbly glide 
Down the rippling stream in mirthful glee, 
And the finny tribe of the rolling sea ; 
The graceful roe .in the forest dell; 
The little pet lambs and gay gazelle — ■ 
All made by his bountiful hand, 
All made by his bountiful hand. 

[Exit Genius of Beauty. "\ 

Enter the Trees. 

We are the Trees, the verdant Trees, 
Waving our leaflets with the breeze ; 
The sturdy Oak, with branches wide, 

Defying the ruthless gale ; 
Evergreen Pines, with lofty tops, 

And the Willow of the vale — 
The Weeping Willow, the mournful Willow, 

The Willow of the vale ! 

The Broad-leaved Palm, and Fir and Bay, 

Cafalpa, with its flow'rets gay ; 

The Fringe-tree, myrtle growing round, 

In the lone, retired cove ; 
Arbor Cselestis, and Sycamore, 

And the Aspen of the grove — 
The trembling Aspen, the tender Aspen, 

The Aspen of the grove ! 

The Laurel, yielding rich perfume ; 
Pride of China, with purple bloom ; 
And tropical Trees, with fruit so rare, 
The fertile Trees of the East; 



134 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



The Orange, Lemon, and sweet Fig, 

With the Olive of the East— 
The peaceful Olive, celestial Olive, 

The Olive of the East. 

Chorus of Muses. 

The Lord Jehovah his great power displayed 
When He this beautiful creation made ; 
Let wide-spread Trees his blessed commands obey ; 
Bow your tall heads and grateful homage pay 
To Him the source of every truth and good — 
God of the desert and the cool greenwood. 

[Exit Trees.' 

Enter the Flowers — Chorus. 

The "perfection of nature" we are called, 

By one who loves us well, 
Whether blooming at home, or growing wild 

Within the lonely dell. 

Where Blue-bells are peeping thro' the long grass, 

So modest and so meek ; 
Where the Eglantine sheds its soft perfume, 

With flushes on its cheek. 

And the Daisy wirite, and the Daisy red, 

To grace the garden spot; ; 
Where the Tulip looks down, with gaudy pride, 

And the "Forget-me-not." 

Tube-roses and Pinks, in the gay parterre, 

Tuft with the ivy ground ; 
Where Lilacs can vie with the Snow-ball high, 

And "Love-lies-bleeding" round. 

The Snow-drop and Crocus of balmy Spring, 

And Violets blue and white, 
The Hyacinth white, and yellow Jonquil, 

And the pretty "By-night," 

And the Rose, the Rose, the queen of all flowers, 

In various colors seen, 
Lilies- of -valley, all pure and white, 

Wrapped in their leaves of green. 



THE PERFECTION OF BEAUTY. 135 

Anemones and Madeira vines. 

And fair exotics too, 
With their delicate leaves and tender blooms 

Of every class and hue. 

Chorus of Muses. 

Bright, bright are your charms, ye beautiful flowers, 

Who love to recline in soft, shady bowers ; 

But for your blest aid our sonnets might the — 

Your sweetness elicits poetic fire. 

There's a pathos and song where bright flowers meet, 

Where woodbines entwine the magnolia sweet ; 

There's melody in the breath of the rose, 

And concord where thyme with lavender grows. 

The music of nature hath its own place 

In the changing tints of the floral race ; 

So bright are your charms, ye beautiful flowers, 

Made to embellish this low world of ours. 

[Exit Flowers slowly. ~\ 

Enter the Jewels — Chorus of Jewels. 

We are the brilliant and costly gems, 
From the Andes high and foreign realms ; 
Coral and Pearl from the ocean bed. 
The Emerald green and Rubies so red. 
Amethyst purple. Agate pure white, 
The Topaz yellow, the Diamond bright, 
Polished by art, and brought from afar 
To deck the city belles' glossy hah*, 
And make them so many pretty things, 
With sets in gold, for their finger-rings ; 
Our richest and rarest are often seen 
In the crown of a king or of a queen. 
A much greater use yet we may claim, 
Which gives immortality to our name ; 
We form a foundation for that abode — 
The luminous City of our God ! 

Genius of Beauty — Solo. 

With natural beauties the world doth abound, 
Across the Atlantic, on Eastern ground ; 



136 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



In rich Southern climes many beauties are seen — 
The North, too, can boast of its beauties, I ween. 
Beyond where the green cliffs of Otter arise, 
In freshness and grandeur, saluting the skies ; 
O, far, far away to the bright glowing West, 
With pines of the mountains and alder-trees drest, 

Where the rose of the vale and crab-apple bloom, 
Diffusing a fragrance of mellow perfume ; 
Where the breezes of heaven are wont to impart 
A glow to the cheek and good health to the heart: 
Where wild flowers blow and pretty birds sing, 
Where life is afloat and hope on the wing ; 
There, there we find Beauty, the offspring of Heaven, 
On the rich landscape spontaneously graven. 

[Exit Jewels.] 
Song of the Muses. 

Good-night, good-night ! ye beauties all — 

The evening twilight steals along ; 
When daylight peeps we will return 

And cheer you with our morning song. [Exeunt^ 



PART II. 

Enter the Muses — Chorus by the Muses. 

Hail, hail to the morning, the spring-time of light, 
The air is all dewy and healthful and bright ; 
While nature is busy and sportive and gay, 
We come from Parnassus to welcome the day. 
Of beauties around us, on earth, we have sung, 
With music adapted to a mortal tongue ; 
But more spiritual themes are wont to inspire 
The magical notes of a seraph's gold lyre. 

Enter Angel of Eternity. Angel of Eternity — Solo. 

That God who made the natural sun to shine 

And cheer our hearts with genial warmth and light, 

Can cause the sun of righteousness divine 
To rise upon the spirit clear and bright. 



THE PERFECTION OF BEAUTY. 137 

And He who in the cloud hath set his bow 

Can radiate the darkness of the mind ; 
Reflecting thus His image to restore 

Upon our souls affections good and kind. 
Yes. He who framed this outward world or time 

Can form with greater beauty that within; 
For what are all the riches of this clime 

Compared with those beyond the sphere of sin ? 

Enter Angel of Time. Angel of Time — Solo. 

The beauties of nature all fade, fade, fade, 
For the fairest are often laid, laid, laid, 

In the cold, cold tomb, 

Isever more to bloom, 
On this low changing and imperfect earth — 
The sad, sad doom of evanescent birth ! 

Angel of Eternity — Solo. 

But beauties that are more holy and high, 
They live in the mind, which never can die ; 
From heaven's blest court all beauty descends 
And beauty with goodness, with right, ever blends. 
They live self-existent in the divine, 
Yet too pure with Him in mortals to shine ; 
Tempered to suit us. they come from above 
In thoughts and affections of wisdom and love ! 

Thoughts and affections no good can bestow 
Till brought into forms of uses below — 
Forms which the seekers of virtue will find 
Made to embellish the heart and the mind. 

[Exit Angels.'] 
Enter Honesty and Decorum — Duet. 

Order is God's first law, and we 

Are missioned to impart 
That beauty which should ever be 

The mentor of each heart. 
Civility to all extend, 

The justice due perform ; 
An honest motive be the end. 

Decorum its bright form. 

v Erit Honesty and Decorum^ 

12 



138 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Enter Devotion and Gratitude — Duet. 

To us the beauteous forms of use are given 
To elevate the soul and open Heaven ; 
Its bright pellucid glories to reveal, 
And to impart the bliss which angels feel. 
When in their bright abodes beyond the skies, 
Freed from all worldly care and selfish ties, 
'Tis ours the virtue of this faith to prove 
By acts of duty and by works of love. 

Chorus by Muses. 

Love and light to man revealing 

Thro' the gentle power of prayer ; 
Softly o'er the spirit stealing, 

Releasing from unholy fear. 
Then in praise to God returning 

For the mercy He imparts ; 
With a flame of glory burning 

On the altar of our hearts. 

[Exit Devotion and Gratitude.'] 

Enter Temperance — Solo. 

See Temperance with her crystal bowl, 

From nature's limpid springs, — 
A beverage nice to poise the soul 

From all unholy things. 
Which surely is a beauteous grace 

To keep the pious mind 
From lawless passions, and erase 

Excess of every kind. 

Chorus oy Muses. 

Come on, ye sons of Bacchus, come ! 

Her banner is unfurled ; 
She holds aloft the sacred pledge, 

Inviting all the world. [Exit Temperance.'] 

Enter Patience and Resignation — Duet. 
When storms of affliction encompass the life, 

O'erwlielniing the sorrowful soul, 
Resignation will quell the horrible strife, 

And Patience the storm will control. 



THE PERFECTION OF BEAUTY. 139 

Tho' boisterous the wind, and heavy the sea, 

And clouds overhead looking dark a 
Those beautiful handmaids the pilots will be, 

And moor into port the frail bark ! 

Chorus by Muses. 

As these lovely guides contending, 

Yielding to His will, 
See ! the Lord the bark defending, 

Crying, "Peace, be still!" 

[Exit Patience and Besignation.] 

Enter Chastity and Innocence — Duet. 

Ye licentious, come not near us ! 

We are unblemished, pure and fan- ; 
Avaunt ! you can not revere us, 

Your presence might our beauty mar. 
One unhallowed touch might harm us, 

And thus despoil our matchless fame ; 
Spheres of truth and goodness charm us 

Where evil lust can not inflame. 

Chorus by Muses. 

Chastity ! thou precious boon, 

So beautiful and rare, 
Thine is the power to bind in one 

The fond "conjugal pair." 
While innocence doth crown their days, 

Devoid of selfish strife, 
The stream of life takes smoothly on 

The husband and the wife ! 

[Exit Chastity and Innocence.'] 

Enter Humility — Solo. 

I am the meek-eyed and lowliest grace, 

So timid, so mild, and serene ; 
With the vile and impure never have place, 

But dwell with the holy and clean. 
For what I possess give honor and praise 

To Him the great Giver divine, 
Tho 1 filled with all good my spirit still says : 
4 ; The kingdom and glory be thine !" [Exit Humility.'] 



140 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Enter Sincerity — Solo. 

They call me beautiful aud very fair, 

With open brow, and free, ingenuous air ; 

O, say, what peerless virtue can surpass 

That bosom, though 'twere transparent glass! 

Thro' which strict Truth might look with piercing eye, 

And not one atom of concealment spy ; 

An artless spirit, free from all disguise, 

Nor would a mantle throw to blind the wise. 

Chorus of Muses. 

The sun is pompous in his strength and might, 

And gilds the rainbow still with softer light. 

The birds are charming, and the bright stars shine ; 

The flowers are lovely, and their rich wreaths twine 

In clusters sweet, around our garden trees, 

Waving their green tops in the gentle breeze ; 

And precious stones of many sparkling hues, 

Among the beautiful their place can choose. 

Say, ye impartial, say ! can all of these 

The virtuous mind and holy angels please, 

Like one with "free-born look 11 and honest smile, 

An Israelite in whom there is no guile ! [Exit Sincerity. ,] 

Enter Faith, Hope, and Charity. Faith — Solo. 

I am the rock on which the Lord 

His glorious church hath built, 
A sure foundation to redeem 

Repentant souls from guilt. 

Clwrus of Muses. 

Faith, the gift of God extending 

To the children of his love ; 
From all evil thus defending, 

His redeeming power to prove. 

Hope — Solo. 

On this unshaken rock I stand, 

A beacon to the soul ; 
Still upward pointing to the land — 

The Christian's wished-for 2oal. 



THE PERFECTION OF BEAUTY. 141 

Chorus of Muses. 

This gospel, Hope, supports the mind 

Firm thro' misfortune's blast; 
On it the Christian still may lean, 

An anchor sure and fast ! 

Charity — Solo. 

See. Charity cometh with dove-like cheek, 

So gentle, so loving, and kind ; 
Of faults and of failings never will speak, 

But always some virtue can find ; 
Over the erring her mantle will throw, 

Excusing, tho' others assail ; 
All, all may forsake and leave to the foe, 

But Charity never can fail. 

Charity ! Charity ! brightest and Id est 

Of all the rich treasures of Heaven, 
0, how our world would be favored and blest 

To all could thy spirit be given. 

[Exit Faith, Dope, and Charity. ~\ 

Enter Mercy and Truth — Duet. 

And Mercy is the matchless, beauteous grace 

Which moved the everlasting God to come 
As Truth, and save a wretched, fallen race, 

That we, in Heaven, might find a blissful home. 
If the good Lord his mercy doth bestow 

On us, so far beneath his holy name, 
How much forbearance should we ever show 

To the offending, tho 1 they be to blame. 

[Exit Mercy and Truth.] 

Enter Righteousness and Peace — Duet. 

These lovely Graces are ; 

The fruits of Righteousness, 
When loved and cherished, fill the mind 

With pure and perfect Peace. 
Peace, Peace ! thou child of Heaven, 

How dear, how sweet thou art ! 
O ! that thy motto might be graven 

On every human heart ! 



142 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Chorus in full. 

This pure transparent Righteousness 

Belongeth to the Lord, 
And he, the only source of Truth, 

Shines glorious in his word. 
In every dot, and ever}' line, 

Jehovah God doth dwell, 
Who did assume the human form 

To rescue man from hell, 
Where all is ugly and deformed, 

And loathsome, and impure, 
Where not a trace of Beauty will 

Be seen for evermore ! 

Thus all may learn the world above 

Is Beauty s native home, 
Where Heaven and Beauty, God and Love, 

Exist as only Oxe. 

Then let us raise our anthems high, 

To Heaven's immortal King, 
Sounding his praise thro' earth and sky, 
And with the Psalmist sing : 
"Beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole earth, is 
Mount Zion, on the sides of the north the city of the great 
King. Out of Zion, the Perfection of Beauty, God hath 
shined." — Psalm xlviii, 2; and 1, 2. 



COSTUMES. 



The Nine Muses are represented by nine girls dressed in 
flowing robes of airy material, each bearing a musical instru- 
ment, or a garland of flowers, or some badge of science. The 
Muses are generally represented crowned with palms, but a 
crown of gems, or one of leaves or flowers, would be appro- 
priate. 

Calliope, who is esteemed the most excellent of all the 
nine, should be dressed in manner to distinguish her from the 
rest. 

Clio is so named from glory. ^ 



THE PERFECTION OF BEAl'TY. 143 

Erato has her name from love. 

Thalia, from her n& pleasantry. 

Melpomene. fr<fm the excellency of her song. 

Tebpsichobe has her name from her delight in dancing. 

Euterpe, from the sweetness of her singing. 

Polyhymnia, from memory^ gesture, and action. 

Urania was s Led because she sings of divine things. 

A lady - ; . ; b -;■ : r . rinement and taste can. from the above. 
e n determine a dress that will suit the different charact- i - 
of the Muses, and also the most a] priate emblem : r each 
one to hear. Perhaps a few suggestions relative to the d\ -- 
of each character in this simple little opera will assist those 
thy limitation; and I vrill. therefore, men- 
tion the dress in conne ti >n with each character as they -v.;- 
r 3 for. to mj ke the play attractive to the audi- 
: much taste can not 1 in the arrangement 

of the stage, or tl ranee of the actors. 

The Stts. Represented by a young lady. Dress of thin 
whit illusion, spangL rly. 

The Rainbow. Dress of silk tulle, in which all th 
of the rainbow must b - : gularly jmbined. 

The Stars. Dress s= : 1 Lue or white tarlatan, dotted with 
stars cut out of gilt or silver paper, and placed at regular lis- 
tances upon the tarlatan. The stars are put on with common 
thin paste, and dried Lmmediately by passing a warm iron 
- it is ] laced upon the tarlatan. It is easily 
done, and th • iffect is beautiful. Aerownm asteboard 

and cover id with star- should be added. 

Chorus oe Birds. Dresses of various hues. .. 
light material. The best singers should be cl - represent 

this chorus. Each girl ought to wear a bandeau upon her 

head with the name of the bird she represents i Lit Letters 

upon it. To make the tableau more effective, th - girls should 
n aged in pairs. 

Gexies oe Beauty. The prettiesl girl in the sch 1 
should be chos o foi this character. Dr-:~- of airy text 
trim:.. tastefully al at the skirt with gay i looped 

over a satin petti at with bunches of delicate w :- The 
berthe and sleeves trimmed to correspond with the - 
Hair curled and a wreath of trembling flowers. 

Chores of Trees. The girls who represent this should 

- ire - liffei snt shad s : gr m, ornamented with 

ves of brown an _ . of a lighter or darker shj I than 
the dress itself. These in I s1 xL on in wreaths i i ws 

around the lower part of the skirt, : i 1 in regular distances, as 



144 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

the stars arc in the dresses above.) "Wreaths of leaves , inter- 
mingled with green and brown, with buds and blossoms for 
the hair. 

Chorus of Flowers. These must be arranged with re- 
gard to the color of the flower each girl personates. Blue-bells, 
blue; Koses, red and white; Tulip, variegated, etc., etc. A 
wreath of the flowers, corresponding to each character, ought 
to be worn by all means. If natural flowers can not be pro- 
cured, artificial can. In arranging this tableau the teacher 
must decide the characters, for a bold, showy girl ought not 
to personate a violet ; neither would a timid, shrinking girl 
do to represent a gaudy flower. All these little things must 
be taken into consideration, for it requires a good deal of tact 
to arrange trifles in a way to make the general effect of an 
exhibition striking. I have known some very amusing and 
ridiculous scenes to occur from this very want of tact on the 
part of teachers. 

Chorus or Jewels. The young ladies who compose this 
should, if it is practicable, wear a set of the gems they per- 
sonate. The color of the dress ought, at any rate, to corre- 4 
spond with the jewels they represent. Emerald, green ; Kuby, 
red ; Topaz, yellow ; Amethyst, a bluish violet color ; Car- 
buncle, a deep red, etc., etc. The Chorus of Jewels makes a 
brilliant and effective tableau if properly arranged. 



Angel of Eternity. Dress of crimson satin ; a tunic of 
white satin, embroidered with gold ; an ephod of white satin, 
brought from behind the neck over the shoulder, crossed over 
the bosom, and studded with gems. A crown upon the head, 
formed of brilliants. 

Honesty, Decorum, Devotion, and Gratitude. Dresses 
of white, light material, each bearing a badge, either upon the 
head or in the hand, on which must be inscribed the names of 
each in gilt letters. 

Temperance. Pure white dress, bearing in her hand a 
2^1ass pitcher or goblet of clear water. There must not be a 
particle of color in the dress — all white. 

Patience and Eesignation. Dress of simple white, with 
wreaths of green leaves on the hair. All the above characters 
should be chosen with reference to the expression of counte- 
nance possessed by the different scholars. The meekest look- 
ing must be chosen to personate these latter. 

Charity and Innocence. Dresses of pure white, with 



THE PERFECTION OF BEAUTY. 145 

vreaths of white flowers. Girls with the most innocent ex- 
pression of face must be chosen for these two characters. 

Humility. An orange-colored dress, without ornament, 
made of tulle, or some other light fabric. Hair perfectly plain. 

Sincerity. Dress of light blue, with ornaments to corre- 
spond. A very fair girl should act this part. 

Faith, Hope, and Charity. Faith — Dress of white silk 
or satin, with pearl ornaments ; a white wreath formed of 
small buds or trembling flowers ; a crucifix in her hand. 
Hope — Dress of blue satin, embroidered with silver ; a dia- 
dem of stars upon the head ; an anchor in her hand. Char- 
ity — Dress of crimson satin ; a mantle of white satin, falling 
loosely and gracefully over the shoulders, or carried on one 
arm : a crown of jewels. 



13 



146 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



THE OLD MAN'S POCKET-BOOK. 



CHARACTERS. 

Mr. Harry Foppy. 
Frank. 

Ned. 

Susan, the Brokers Daughter. 

Lily, Sister to Susan. 

Emma. 

Maria. 



SCENE I. 



A Parlor in a Hotel. Harry Foppy, Frank, and Ned seated 
at a table on ichich is a oackgammon-ooard ; Foppy and 
Frank engaged in the game, Ned looking on, After the 
curtain rises, they continue to play a few minutes. 

Frank (throwing the dice). Sixes, I declare! Well, 
Foppy, that gammons you. 

Foppy. I give it up. Suppose we stop and take a smoke. 
[ Takes a cigar-case from his pocket and offers it to Ned and 
Frank, loho take a cigar.'] 

Enter Lily {unseen oy the young men ; takes a seat at some 
distance). 

Ned. Foppy, what news is this I hear of you? They 
say you are really courting Miss Susan, the daughter of the 
rich broker, Jones. 

Frank. I can not see what there is to admire about her. 
I assure you she is not my style. [Buffs cigar.] Well, 
Foppy, I think Ned and I are entitled to your confidence. 
Come, tell us all about it. 

Ned. Yes, Foppy, speak freely — we are all friends. 

Foppy (strokes his chin with his hand pompously). Well, 
boys, I will be candid. It is true that I am courting Miss 



THE OLD MANS POCKET-BOOK. 



Susan Jones, but the fact is I care nothing for the girl. 

The old man's pocket-book is all that I am after. 

Xed (discovers Lily). I would advise you not to speak 
quite so loud, for there is the young lady's sister. 

Frank (loolcs at Lily.) Yes, and she has heard every 
word that you said. 

Ned. Little pitchers have long ears. Foppy. 

Foppy. Never mind. [Winks hnowingly at Xed and 
Prank.] Ill make it all right. [To Lily.] Come here, 
my little miss. [Lily approaches Foppy. who takes her on 
his fcnee.~\ Did you hear what I said just now about your 
sister Susan \ 

Lily (sharply). I guess I did. 

Poppy (aside). The nation you did ! [Aloud,] See here! 
will you promise not to tell any body what I said if I will 
give you a shinplaster? 

Lily. Yes. 

Foppy (puts a dime in the child's hand.) Xow, remem- 
ber, you are not to tell. 

Lily. I will. 

Foppy (hisses Lily and places her upon her feet). Run 
along now. that's a good child. [Exit Lily.] It's all right 
with her now. 

Prank. Don't be too certain. 

ISTed. As I said before, little pitchers have long ears. 

Prank. And long tongues, too, sometimes. 

Foppy. I have no fears on that score, boys. 

Fraxe and Xed. TVe will see. 

(Curtain falls.) 

SCENE H. 

Room. Susan, Emma, and Marl\ seated, scoring. Enter Lily. 

Lily. O, girls, see what Mr. Harry Foppy gave me! 
[Shows the money.'] 
Maria. How did this happen? 

Susan. You should never accept money from young men. 
Lily. You was the cause of it. 
Sttsax (in surprise). Me! What do you mean? 
Lily. Ma sent me to the hotel to take a note to a lady, 



148 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

and while I was waiting in the parlor Mr. Foppy and Mr. 
Frank and another man was there, and they asked Mr. 
Foppy if he wasn't courting you? 

Emma. My goodness! and what did Mr. Foppy say? 

Lily. He said yes ; but he did n't care for sister Susan — 
the old man's pocket-book was all that he was after, and 
he gave me this not to tell ! 

Emma. And you took the money, and then told ! 

Maria. You are a fast one ! 

Susan. Never mind, girls ; I am glad Lily has told. I 
will now know how to treat the young man the next time 
he calls. 

{Curtain falls.) 



SCENE m. 
Same room. Susan seated near a table ; knocks heard outside. 

Susan. Come in. [Enter Foppy.] Mr. Foppy, good 
morning. [Rises, offers a chair.] Pray, be seated. 

Foppy (with an embarrassed air). Miss Susan, excuse 
me — but — I — you must be aware, Miss Susan, that my fre- 
quent visits to you have not — [puts Ms hand on his heart, 
bows profoundly] — been without an object. 

Susan. Really, Mr. Foppy, I would be very stupid if I 
did not comprehend the object of your frequent visits. 

Foppy (with earnestness). Dare I hope that my fondest 
wishes are about to be realized? [Bows.] 

Susan. You may, indeed ! I understand from a most 
reliable source that all you are after is the old man's pocket- 
book ! Allow me to present it to you — [gives him an empty, 
dilapidated pocket-book] — and, at the same time, to bid you 
a very good evening. [Exit Susan.] 

Foppy {twirls the pocket-book round, and round). Well, 
well ! this is what I call putting a fellow through in double- 
quick ! 

Enter Frank and Ned. 

Frank and Ned. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Sold, Foppy — sold ! 

( Curtain falls.) 



ARAMINTA JENKINS. 149 



ARAMINTA JENKINS, 



CHARACTERS. 

Abatwtnta Jenkins. 

Susan. 

Louise. 

Anna. 



SCENE I. 



Room plainly furnished. Anna and Louise standing at 
right side of stage. Enter Susan — L. 

Susan. O. girls, we have a new scholar. 
Anna. What is her name ? 
Susan. Her name is Araminta Jenkins. 
Louise. Mercy ! what a name ! 
Anna. Where did she come from ? 
Susan. Fresh from the country. 
Louise. ISTo doubt a real greenhorn. 
Susan. Yon will think so when you see her. 
Anna. How is she dressed ? 

Susan. 0. so queer ; and then she talks so outlandish. 
But. hush ! she is coming. 

Enter Araminta — L. 

Araminta. Plague take them servants with their white 
aprons. I wonder if they have packed in all my baggage. 

Louise. How much baggage have you ? 

Araminta. Why, two trunks, one bandbox, a carpet- 
sack, a round basket, a pair of Iujin rubber overshoes, and 
an umbrella, 

Anna. How do you think you will like our school ? 

Araminta (tosses her head, and walks about). Don't 
know. Maw told pap he ought to send me here a spell to 



150 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

qualify myself, else I would n't marry soon ; but the idea of 
being shut up here nearly slays me ! 

Susan. Have you been used to much company ? 

Araminta. Much company ! I should say I had. I 
went to lots of storm parties, and quiltings, and all that 
sort of thing, last winter. But pap said I needed one more 
quarter at school to polish me off. 

Louise. What do you expect to study ? 

Aramtnta. O, I 'in done with 'rithmetic and all that. 
I am just going to be a parlor boarder, and look after music 
and French a bit, and spelling. You see, pap wants me to 
be a kick above the common run, because he 's rich. He 
makes five cents every breath he draws, and he draws a 
powerful lot of breaths every day. 

Anna. What profession is your father ? 

Araminta. Sakes alive ! he ain't no professor. 

Anna. I mean, what does he do for a living ? 

Aramtnta. O, I see what you mean. Well, pap was an 
army contractor till he struck ile. I tell you what, pap is 
one of the 'stocracy, if he does live in the country. 

Susan. What do you call 'stocracy ? 

Araminta. Laws ! do n't you know ? Why people that 
lives in four-story houses and has marble mantel-pieces, and 
keeps a girl to cook, and one to clean house, and a man to 
do extras. I 've got an aunt that lives in Cincinnater, and 
she is 'stocracy, and so is pap. He is none of your mush-a- 
rooms ! 

Anna (smiling). What are mush-a-rooms ? 

Araminta. Why people that lives in two-story houses, 
and has n't got no marble mantel-pieces, and do n't keep 
but one girl. 

Louise. Are you fond of reading ? 

Araminta. Reading! I should say I was. Didn't I 
bring a perfect cord of yaller back novels in my trunk ? 
[Tosses Iter head.] O, I could live on novels. [Turns sud- 
denly to Susan.] Look here! Did you ever read the 
Children of the Abbey ? 

Susan. O, yes. 

Araminta. I was named out of that book. You see, 
when I was a baby maw called me Rachel, but you better 
believe when I got old enough to read the Children of the 
Abbev, I changed my name to Jr-a-minta. 



ARAMINTA JENKINS. 151 

Susan. I wonder you did not call yourself Amanda 
Fitzallan, after the heroine. 

Akamtnta (with disdain). 0. she was so hateful and 

stuck up. She always had a lot of men in love with her ; 
and all the time she did n't love nobody but Lord Morti- 
more. You see /know all about these things. Jim Smith, 
he come over to our house purpose to court me ; but I 
knowed all he was after was pap's money, and you better 
believe I sent him up the spout. [Points upward.] I know 
them Smiths from A to izzard, and they are the peskiest 
people you ever hearn tell of. 

Susan. "Well, changing the subject, did the war affect 
your part of the country \ 

Ahamtnta. The war ! I should say it did. That very 
Jim Smith I was talking about just now. went right straight 
and joined the army as soon as I jilted him. and the very 
first battle he got into he was shot plum through the arm. 
[Strikes Tier left arm with forefinger of rigid hand.] 

Susan. Did he die \ 

Ahamtnta. Die! I should say he didn't. The bullet 
has got to be molded yet to kill Jim Smith. He got well 
as soon as the ball was amputated. 

Susan. I want to know if the war affects your society ? 

Araminta. I should say it did. All the fellers that 
belonged to the debating society went off into the army, 
and knocked the whole thing into fits. 

Susan. I did not allude to any particular society. I 
wanted to know how the war affected the people generally. 

Abamtnta. O. I see what you mean. I should say it 
has scared half the girls in our neighborhood out of their 
seven senses. 

Susan. How ? 

Araminta. How! Why men are getting as scarce as 
hen's teeth, and they are afraid they will all die old maids. 
I heard pap say that by the time the war was over, wid-ows 
would n't be worth ten cents a car load. 

Susan. You must live in a lively neighborhood ? 

Araminta. I should say I did. But, laws a mercy ! I 
must go and dress for dinner, for maw said if I didn't 
dress three times a day you town folks wouldn't know I 
was 'stocraey ! [Exit icitli a flourish — i?.] 

Susan. Poor girl! She thinks money is everv thing. 



152 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

But, tell me, girls [addressing Louise and Anna], would 
you not rather have more brains and less money ? 

Louise and Anna. More brains ! 

Susan. Very well, then ; let us learn a lesson by know- 
ing Araminta Jenkins; and, as long as none of us are 
wealthy, let us strive to be intelligent, for it is far better to 
be sensible and humble than to be rich and arrogant. 

Louise {comes forward). As Miss Araminta Jenkins 
would say, "I should think it is." 

{Curtain falls.) 



COSTUMES. 



Susan, Louise, and Anna. Neat home dresses. 

Araminta Jenkins. A gaudy colored dress, made awk- 
wardly ; an ill-fitting basque ; tawdry ribbons about her neck 
and hair ; a very high comb. 



THE DANCING DUTCHMAN. 153 



THE DANCING DUTCHMAN. 



CHARACTERS. 

Master. Servant. 

Traveler. Dutchman. 

Judge. Sheriff. 

xATTENDANTS. 



SCENE I. 



An out-door scene. Master walking to and fro, as if in deep 
thought. Enter Servant. 

Servant. I beg pardon for interrupting you. but I would 
like to speak with you. 

Master (halts suddenly; frowns). Well, what may be 
your pleasure ? 

Servant. It 's no use to be looking so black about it. for 
the honest truth is the honest truth. 

Master (impatiently). Have done with your canting. 
and speak your errand. 

Servant. Ah, well; ray errand is soon spoken. I have 
served you now faithfully for three long years, and think I 
ought to be paid my wages. Be so good as to give me 
what I deserve : for I wish to leave and look about me a bit 
in the world. 

Master. Yes. my good fellow, you have served me in- 
dustriously, and therefore you shall be cheerfully rewarded. 
[Aside.] The fellow don't know a twenty dollar gold 
piece from a copper cent. I will fool him — pay him off 
and let him go. [Takes three coppers from his pocket; hands 
the rn to Servant.] There; I give you three twenty dollar 
gold pieces, one for each year, which is much more than 
you would have received from most masters. Go! and 
make the best of it. 



154 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Servant (takes coin; bows low). Thank you, thank you 
a thousand times. May your shadow never grow less. 

Master (shales Servant by hand). Farewell, and may 
you always rind as kind a master as I have been to you. 
\_Exii Master. Servant walks about and whistles ; shakes the 
coin in his pocket."] 

Enter Traveler. 

Traveler. Whither away, merry brother? I see you do 

not carry much in the way of care. 

Servant. Care ! Why should I be sad, with the wages 
of three years in my pocket ? 

Traveler. How much is your treasure? 

Servant (takes out coin). Three twenty-dollar gold 
pieces ; all honestly counted. 

Traveler. Well, I am a poor, needy old man — you 
are young and able to work for more — give me the gold. 

Servant. For heaven's sake, take it. [Hands coin to 
Traveler.] You certainly look as if you need it. I am 
more able to do without than you. 

Traveler (takes coin; looks at it). My merry brother, 
this is not gold. You have been cheated. 

Servant (surprised). Not gold! Well, heaven knows I 
worked for it honestly, and ought to have been paid hon- 
estly. I would n't swap places with that old curmudgeon 
of a master. However, keep it, keep it. You are wel- 
come to it. 

Traveler. I see you are a noble fellow, and will reward 
you accordingly. [.Draws a fiddle from wider his cloak.] 
See, here is a fiddle that possesses wondrous powers. No 
matter who comes within the sound of it dances. 

Servant (surprised). Whether he wills or not? 

Traveler. Even so. No person can hear the sound of 
this fiddle and refrain from dancing, except the one who 
plays upon it. I give it to you. [Hands fiddle to Servant.] 
Use your power, young man; but don't abuse it. 

Servant (turns fiddle over and over; looks at it; tunes it 
slightly). You sa} r every one who hears this fiddle is bound 
to dance? 

Traveler. What I tell you, young man, is true. 

Servant. Then, by the piper, I '11 try it on your spindle 
shanks! [Plays fiddle; Traveler dances off the stage.] 



:he dancing Dutchman. 155 



Enter Dutchman. 

Servant {ceases playing; starts bach}. Halloo! 
Dutchman. Halloo, myself ! 

Servant. Who are yon \ "Where did you come from \ 
Where are you going \ What are you g oing for \ And do 
you expect to get it \ 

Dutchman. " Ugh ! Yen qu :--::;:: at a time, and dey will 
lasth te longer. Sly name ish Shacob Hoffen-Doffen^steiner, 
shoost from Califoma. mit mine pag of hold. [Shows 

I ish goin" home to marry Karri:: Sqneeshilianter. 
:rin is one great gurl ! She can :..::: : like one top. 
Servant. And can't you dance, too I 
Dutchman a I I Ms I t I jn ffs). 0. 
:• I I ish not much to tance. I ish too heavy. 
Servant. 0. I think you could dance. 
Dutchaia^. O. no : you mishtake. I can not tance. I 
ish too fat enough. [Servant begins to play the fi I ~' dotoh ; 
Dutchman begins to dance slowh .] O. vat ish te matter mit 
mine feet \ [Servant pi .; s faster; Dutch:::;.:. I .- vs faster.] 
0. I vish you would shtop dat feedle. I ish not vish to 
tance. "Servant plays still faster ; Dutchman dances still 
fi iter.] 0. shtop dat leeti:- , " 0. mine pack ! [j 

id t hisl :J:~_ 0. shtop. shtop dat — von lee-tle — nd-dle 
and [j its] I give you all dis kold. [Holds up the 
Servant . 

Servant. You say you will give me all the gold 1 
DuTcntMA^" icing ; pants). No! chink my lager 

it I do. I prake dat von leetle fiddle. [Servant \ 

Uy; Dutchman dances furiously.] 0. yes! O. yes! 
Sht :p — and — I geeve — you — all — mine — kold ! \T~h 
on angrUi .] 
Servant (stops pi ~ takes up the ba and 

ray). I thank you kindly. Mr. Hoifen-borfen- 
steiner; 1 ;:: I must say you dance as if you had been bred 
-.11. and good luck to you. [Exit Servant] 

Dutchman fter Servant in : -, Dunder 

on 1 I 3 ::■:::: 1 He ish gut mine kold and _ :: - mit it ! Mnr- 
ther! murther! Roppeis! roppers! hire; fire! fire ! O. 
vere ish y : Katrin und te papies :: v.- . [Strikes his 
to his ; shakes his fist fter Servant.] ISTix com 

ae ! O. you plack varmint! you leetle mug of spiled 



156 ORIGINAL DRAMAS, 



peer! I'll report you to head-quarters, unci have you tried 
midout habeas corpus by cle court-martial, unci shot to 
death mit a rope round your ugly neck on de gallows! 
I'll show you vat it ish to play on von leetle fiddle! You 
shall dance von leetle jig on te tight rope! O, Katrin! 
Katrin ! 

{Curtain falls.) 



SCENE II. 

A court-room. Judge, Lawyers, Sheriff, anal people in at- 
tendance. Enter Dutchman in haste. 

Dutchman (approaches Judge). O, Shudge, I ish got one 
sorry tale to tell you ! I vash coming home mit mine pag 
of kold from Californa to marry Katrin, unci shoost as I 
get to de edge of town I meets a man dat ask all apout 
mine beesness, unci I tell him ; unci ten he pegin to play him 
leetle fiddle, unci make me tance till I promise him mine 
bag of kold. I tance unci tance, unci ain't mooch to tance 
neitder, because I ish too heavy enough; but de more he 
play te more I tance, till mine pack pegin to fall off my 
clothes, und I git so tired dat I shoost as lief live as die, I 
pe so tired muchly. 

Judge. This is a strange story, my good fellow. Was it 
a soldier who treated you in this way ? 

Dutchman. No, it vas no soljer! I tell you it vas one 
beautiful leetle fiddler, und I vant to catch de tog mit mine 
kold. He make me to tance, und den he peat me, und I 
vant him put in cle jail-house und den hang him till he 
give mine kolcl pack. 

Judge. Would you know him again ? 

Dutchman. Yaw, I would know him one tousancl times ! 

Judge (to Sheriff). Sheriff, go with this man and bring 
the fellow to justice. If he has been guilty of committing 
such an outrage upon the public road, lie must be punished. 
[Exeunt Dutchman, Sheriff, and others.'] This is a highly 
improbable story ; but one side is always good till we hear 
the other. We will not make up an opinion until the mat- 
ter undergoes a strict investigation. It is not always best- 
to jump at conclusions. [LooJcs pompously around.'] The 



THE DANCING DUTCHMAN. 157 

office of judge is not only a trying one. but, in many cases, 
thankless ; and it requires great deliberation and much con- 
sideration in all litigation to win the approbation of — [looks 
toward entrance] — but I see they have caught the offender. 
[All look outside.] He struggles manfully, but the Dutch- 
man holds a tight grip. [Outside a xoice heard.] 

Dutchman (outside), O, yaw! by tarn, git up mit you. 
I told you, you squealin tog, I'd preak dat yon leetle fiddle ! 
Come, und let de law make you tance to anoder fiddle. 
[Enter Dutchman, dragging Servant, followed by Sheriff and 
others.] Here he is mit his fiddle and mine kold in his 
pocket. [Looks exultant.] 

Judge. Sheriff, search the prisoner. 

Dutchman. Dat ish right ! Pring him round ! pring him 
round ! O, you yon pig tog ! 

Judge. Silence in court! [To Servant.] What charge 
is this brought against you ? Robbing and beating a poor, 
inoffensive Dutchman on the public highway ! 

Servant. I never touched the Dutchman, and did not 
steal his money. He gave it to me, of his own free will and 
accord, to pay me to cease fiddling. 

Dutchman. Dat ish a lie! I tell you, Shudge, he can 
tell lies faster an I can catch flies on de wall. 

Servant (looks contemptuously at Dutchman.) I tell your 
honor I did not lay the weight of my finger on his Dutch 
carcass. 

Dutchman. Dat ish a bigger lie an de udder. He peat 
me und peat me till mine pack drop off my clothes, und 
shoost as I was about to git a fence off de rail to knock his 
shoulders off his head, he begin to play dat von leetle 
fiddle und make me to tance. De Shudge can see ; und de 
ting speak for itself ! Where ish mine money, hey ? 

Judge (to Servant). Your defense will not do; for no 
Dutchman would give away a bag of gold of his own free 
will. You have committed a robbery, and that on the 
public highway ; and for such an offense our law says you 
must be hung! Sheriff, take the prisoner into custody. 
[Sheriff takes hold of Servant, hands the bag of gold to 
Dutchman.] 

Dutchman (takes gold, dances about hi glee). O, yaw, 
you von pig tog ! you go board at de jail-house, und I bet de 
jailer put one lock pehind you so tight dat you never git 



158 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

loose no more. Besides, ve git you hung so high cle Gov , ~ 
nor can't pardon you in time to save you proken neck. [Exit I 
Sheriff and Servant. All retire to oac% of stage ; Dutch- 
man comes forward, flourishing gold.] Now, Katrin, Shacob ' 
vill puy cle farm, unci ve can raise pigs unci shickens unci 
tings, unci pe so happy as cle clay ish long ! [Sings.'] 

FINE OLD DICHER GENTLEMAN. 

Tra® — "Fine Old English Gentleman." 

I '11 sing you now a Dicher song 'bout Hans von Crouplegate, 

Vot kept a lager-beer saloon right in de Bowery Schtreet ; 

He eat de swine beef-steak and sloak and every kind of meat — 

[Spoken] . And I swear mit mine goot gracious pon top of de people as so 
much as a barrel of sour krout and — 
Two bushels of lager-beer every morning he would eat ; 
He was a fine old Dicher gentleman, one of de real sthock. 

By his fire-stove in his beer saloon every morning he would stand, 
Mit a bottle of schnapps down by his side and a glass up in his hand. 
And by himself he drinks dis toast " Och, die, de Faderland I" 

[Spoken] . And midout you could Dicher versa as he would say nix Eng- 
lish— 

Grasper hoskle spikle beef-steaks you nix could understand, 
Dis fine old Dicher gentleman, one of de bestish kind. 

His nose was red as beetle — yaw, by tunder dat was true ! 

His mouth 'bout sixteen inches wide, his eyes was plack as blue, 

An 1 he belong to de Sangerbund, and he was a Turner, too — 

[Sj)oken] . But in politics make nix difference mit him, but den you come 
round mit de Maine liquor law — 

And takes away his lagerbeer, den by tarn dat was some ting near to 
Dis fine old Dicher gentleman, one of de real sthock. 

Dis fine old Dicher gentleman to his bed went every night, 
And when comes round elections mit oder fellows he did fight, 
And sthrike mit a double-barreled bowie-knife, but I do n't tink dat was right — 
[Spo7cen] . And ran one of dem peoples, hit his head, breaked into his 
nose all over his face, and he was drowned mit a big sthick — 
I tell you right away — just now — it was a sorry fight 
To dis fine old Dicher gentleman, one of de bestish kind. 

But by and by den comes some troubles, he must fight with all his main, 
Dough he was kilt two as six eight dozen couple times, he jumps up and 

fights again, 
Dough Ms head was split open down his back, and de blood come down like 

rain — 
[Spoken] . And in comes a cor'ner mit de jury and sets on his pody twenty- 
four hours as three-quarters and den dey — 

Brings in a verdict dat he died mit brandy and vater on te brain — 
He was a fine old Dicher gentleman, one of de real sthock ! 

(Curtain falls.) 



THE DANCING DUTCHMAN. 159 



SCENE III. 

A galloics erected on the stage. A mixed crowd. Sheriff con- 
ducts prisoner (bearing Ms fiddle) to the ladder ; Servant 
mounts to the top round; Sheriff stands with rope in hand. 
Dutchman, Judge, and Lawyers in attendance. Servant 
turns to Judge. 

Dutchman (shakes gold at Servant). O. you von pig dog ! 
you steal my money, did you \ 

Servant (to Judge). Will your honor grant me one re- 
quest before I die ? 

Judge. If you do not ask your life, I will. 

Servant. I do not ask my life; all I ask is to be allowed 
to play one tune upon my riddle. 

Dutchman. Murder ! murder ! Do n't, for de world, let 
him play on dat tarn ting — do n't ! 

Judge. Why not ? It is almost over with the poor fel- 
low. 

Dutchman (grasps Judge's arm). For de love of your 
life, do n't let de pig tog give a schrape of de bow on dat 
tarn ting ! 

Judge (shakes Dutchman off). Off with you! I will 
grant this last request. Be off! [Servant tunes fiddle.] 

Dutchman. O — O ! Murder ! fire ! Somepody hold me ! 
Tie mine feet, somepody — tie me — tie me ! O, I pe a dead 
man ! 

[Servant plays softly at first; the rope drops from the 
Sheriff's hand; the feet of the whole crowd begin to move 
simultaneously ; as the Servant plays faster all begin to dance ; 
the faster he plays the higher they all jump, until, exhausted, 
the Judge cries out piteously.] 

Judge. For the love of Heaven, stop — cease — your — fid — 
dling! [Pants.'] Do — you — hear? I — will grant — your — 
life — if you will — on-ly — s-t-o-p ! 

Servant (ceases playing). Did your honor say you would 
spare my life ? 

Judge (with others, ceases dancing). No, you vile de- 
ceiver ! you shall be hung as high as Hainan ! 

Dutchman (panting). O. yaw! you villain loafer — 
hear dat? Shudge, hang him so high dat de buzzards 
can't find him ! Make him tance von leetle jig on de tight- 



160 



ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



rope ! 
ing.~] 



[Servant begins to play a lively air ; all fall to danc- 



Judge (at the top of Ms voice). Yes, yes! Only stop, and 
you shall live, on my honor as a judge ! 

Dutchman (dancing furiously). Yaw, Shudge — let him 
live — let him live — te pig tog ! O, hold me, somepody ! — 
O—O! 

(Curtain falls.) 



THE RELIEF AID SEWING SOCIETY. 161 



THE RELIEF AID SEWING SOCIETY, 

Ok Mrs. JONES'S VOW. 



CHARACTERS. 

Mrs. Jones. 

Mrs. Millpost. 

Mrs. Daffodil. 

Mrs. John Smith. 

Mrs. BpvIggs. 

Mrs. Martin, an old Woman. 

Mrs. Burke. 

Mrs. McBride. 

Miss Upstart, an old Maid. 

Philip Joxes. 



SCENE I. 



Stage, arranged with chairs and a table, on which is piled dif- 
ferent articles of clothing, cut ready for sewing. Mrs. Mc- 
Brtde and Miss Upstart seated near the table, engaged in 
preparing the work for the Society. 

Miss Upstart. I wonder what is detaining the members 
of our society so late? [Tales out her watch.'] It is past 
seven. 

Mrs. McBride. I 'm sure I do n't know. It is a wonder 
Mrs. John Smith aud Mrs. Briggs are not here, for they are 
generally the first. 

Miss Upstart. Yes, for they are always afraid some- 
thing will be done without their having a finger in the pie. 
They think our Relief Society would tumble to pieces if 
they were not here to hold it together. I despise meddlers ! 

Mrs. McBride. So do I; and it is just as you say, Mrs. 
Briggs and Mrs. Smith both believe that if they had had 
the management of affairs thai the South never would 

u 



162 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

liave been defeated. For my part I never want to inter- 
fere with other people's concerns. 

Miss Upstart. O, every body knows you, Mrs. McBride; 
but I just wanted to ask you : Did you see that hat of Mrs. 
Burke's last Sunday ? It was a bed of flowers. Where is 
that gusset? [Stooj)s and looks under the table!] O, here 
it is. 

Mrs. McBride. O, yes, I noticed it. I couldn't listen 
to the sermon for looking at that and Miss Miller's shawl. 
For my part I can't see how Mrs. Burke can afford a twenty- 
dollar bonnet, when her husband is nothing but a carpen- 
ter. Hand me the thread. 

Miss Upstart (hands thread). Mrs. Burke would blow 
you sky high if she heard you call Burke a carpenter. She 
says he is an architect. 

Mrs. McBride. Archiiiddlesticks ! I do think Mrs. Burke 
is the most affected, stuck-up person I ever saw. [Looks to- 
ward entrance.'] But, mercy! here she comes, with old j\Irs. 
Martin. Miss Upstart, loan me your scissors — I forgot mine. 
[Miss Upstart hands scissors.'] 

Enter Mrs. Burke and Mrs. Martin. 

Mrs. Burke. Good evening, ladies. [Sinks into a chair 
in an affected manner.] 

Mrs. Martin.* Why, nobody here but you ? I thought 
we would be the last, for I had to wait for Mrs. Burke. 

Mrs. Burke. Well, you know, Mrs. McBride, I have to 
humor Mr. Burke to death. He must have supper before I 
could get off. He is regular. The sun, moon, and stars may 
vary, but Mr. Burke never does. 

Mrs. McBride. You know the old saying: "Talk of the 
Old Bo3^, and his imps will appear!" We were just talking 
about you [to Mrs. Burke] before you came in. 

Mrs. Burke (elevates her oroic). Indeed! Nothing bad, 
I trust. 

Mrs. McBride (winks at Miss Upstart). 0, no. We 
were speaking of your new hat, and how very becoming 
it is. 

Miss Upstart. What did it cost ? 

Mrs. Burke. O, it was a bargain — only twenty dollars ! 

* The girl who acts this must imitate the voice of an old woman. 



THE RELIEF AID SEWING SOCIETY. 163 

Mr. Burke wanted me to purchase one at thirty, but I am 
too economical for that, 

Mrs. McBride. I have always admired your economy. 
[ Winks at Miss Upstart.] 

Mrs. Burke (looking round). Where are all the other 
ladies ? 

Miss Upstart. They'll be along presently. I know Mrs. 
Millpost is coming. I saw her at one of the store doors in 
that old barouche of hers as I came down street. 

Mrs. McBrtde. I would be ashamed to ride in that old 
rattle-trap. You can hear it a mile before you see it, and 
the curtains go flip-flap like a hound dog's ears. 

Miss Upstart. And that old horse looks as if he had n't 
seen a curry-comb for an age. 

Mrs. Burke. Mrs. Millpost is able to purchase a new, 
fashionable equipage. 

Miss Upstart. Her excuse is, that her husband would 
never be willing for her to ride in a new one. It -would be 
always too muddy or too dusty. [Looks toward, entrance.'] 
But here they all come. Do, pray, do n't tell her what I 
said. We mustn't make her mad, for she sews so fast; 
and the fact is I like Mrs. Millpost — she's so lively. 

Mrs. Burke. Well, give Mrs. Martin and myself some 
work. [Miss Upstart hands them a garment; they seat them- 
selves and sew.'] 

Enter Mrs. Joxes, Mrs. Daffodil, Mrs. Joies Smith, Mrs. 
Millpost, and Mrs. Briggs. 

Miss Upstart. And so you are all here, at last. Come, 
hurry and take off your things and get to work, for I am 
afraid the poor southerners will suffer for clothing if we 
do n't work faster. [All seat themselves and ~begin to sew.] 

Mrs. Millpost. You are right, Miss Upstart. If our 
needles were to move as fast as our tongues we would get 
along better. 

Mrs. Briggs. That is just what Briggs says, and that he 
wouldn't be compelled to listen to all we say for ten dol- 
lars an hour. 

Mrs. Jonx Smith. I wouldn't risk offering it to him. and 
I'll warrant he would not hear half the gossip from us that 
he would if as many men were to meet together. 

Mrs. Briggs. That 's exactlv what I told him. 



164 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Mrs. Daffodil. Yes, and it is true; for I just laughsd at 
Mr. Daffodil, the other night. He came home and told me 
the longest rigmarole that happened down town, and I 
asked him how he heard it, and he said that John F.* 
heard Silas W. tell Mr. S. that A. told him that Jim H. 
heard Judge somebody and Dr. R. discussing the matter, 
and it was true without a doubt. Now if that is not gossip, 
what is gossip? 

Mrs. John Smith. I have a curiosity to know what these 
gentlemen were gossiping about. Do you remember i 

Mrs. Daffodil. Mercy on me! I don't exactly remem- 
ber — somthing, I believe, about Judge Lynch. Mrs. Mc- 
Bride. please clip this thread; my scissors arc so large. 
[Mrs. McBkide cuts the thread.'] 

Mrs. Bhiogs. It seems to me [looks around] I miss some- 
body. Who is it? 

Mrs. John Smith (looks around). Why, it is Mrs. Mans- j 
field ; and she won't be here, for her husband is on another j 
spree. 

Mrs. Briggs. I didn't know Mr. Mansfield ever drank 
too much. 

Mrs. John Smith. O, yes, the old man gets on a bender 
every once in a while. 

Mrs. Millpost. I do not see how she does to stand it; 
for I'm sure if my husband were to get drunk it would kill 
me. I would n't know what to do. 

Mrs. Bkiggs. Well, if Briggs were to get drunk I know 
mighty quick what I\l do. 

Mrs. Jones. What would you do ? 

Mrs. Briggs. Why, I would tar and feather him. 

Mrs. Burke. If Mr. Burke were, by any accident, to be- 
come inebriated, he would long for the sound of my voice 
like birds long for Spring ; for I would never speak to him 
again, I am sure. 

Mrs. McBride. Well, you had better believe, I^d speak, 
and act, too ; for if ever my husband gets drunk I will sew 
him up in a bag and whip him with a good cowhide until 
he becomes sober. 

Mrs. John Smith. I would not be as severe as that, Mrs. 

* Wherever this is performed the names introduced should he taken from 
life, as such a local introduction will make it more laughable, especially if 
dignified gentlemen's names are used. 



THE RELIEF AID SEWING SOCIETY. 165 



McBride, but I think if John Smith were to come home 
drunk, I would lock him up and feed him on bread and 
water till he came to his senses. 

Mrs. Daffodil. "Well. I would neither whip Mr. Daffo- 
dil or starve him ; but if he were to contract the habit of 
d inking, I would get a bottle of whisky, and every time he 
took a dram I would take one too. and disgust him so that 
he would be glad to keep sober. 

Miss Upstart. Well, I never had a husband : but if I 
am ever unfortunate enough to be entrapped into matri- 
mony, and I should get a drunken husband, I would duck 
him in Edmonds's pond till I cooled him off. 

Mrs. John Smith. Well, here is Mrs. Martin [looks tmoard 
Mrs. Martin], who has not spoken a word. Xow, what 
would you do if Mr. Martin were to get drunk \ 

Mrs. Marten (jjuslies up spectacles). I have been listen- 
ing to you young folks, and none of you know as much 
about the world as I do. 1 11 tell you what I 'd do if my 
old man should forget himself and drink too much 
whisky. 

Mrs. Brtggs and Mrs. Smith. What, 3 Irs. Martin \ 

Mrs. Marten. Well, just this: I would say nothing to 
him or any body else: but I would tuck him in the bed and 
cover him up, and hide it from the world if I could. 

Mrs. Mtllpost. Are you in earnest. Mrs. Martin? 

Mrs. Martin. Yes. child: it don't pay to lay opeli each 
other's failings, and a woman ought never to expose a fault 
in her husband to the world, especially if she has children. 
For their sake and her own she ought to keep quiet. 

Mrs. Jones {approaches front of stage). Don't talk to 
m \ Mrs. Martin, about a woman keeping quiet if her hus- 
band gets drunk. I do not believe that "doctrine : and you 
all hear me say it. if Philip Jones were to get drunk I would 
not live with him another day. 

Mrs. Daffodil. O. yes; you say that because you know 
Philip is a member of the church, and a sober man, and 
there is no danger. ■ 

Mrs. Martin. And you ought not to be so positive: you 
might rue it. 

Mrs. Jones (scornfully). Rue it! I intend here to make 
a solemn vow before you all. that if ray husband gets drunk 
1 1 c 111 not lice with him another day. 



166 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Mrs. Marten {comes forward; talcs Mrs. Jones's arm). 
Janey, do n't say that ; you will be sorry for it, maybe. 

Mrs. Jones (shakes ojf Mrs. Martin's hand). It is too 
late to take it back. I have said it, and I will stick to it, 
so help me — 

Mrs. Martin (seises Mrs. Jones's uplifted hand). Do n't, 
Janey ! do n't ! 

(Curtain falls.) 



SCEIS T E II. 

Boom furnished as a family room: A table with books and 
a work-basket on it; a lounge, chairs, etc. Mrs. Jones 
walking to and fro ; stops, walks again, comes forward to 
front of stage. 

Mrs. Jones. I wonder what keeps Philip out so late. I 
never knew him to act this way before. [Looks at her watch.] 
It is nearly twelve o'clock. What can detain him? [ Walks 
to and fro.] I believe I will sew and pass off the time. 
[Seats herself; takes work-basket on her lap and seics a second 
or two ~ throws down the basket, rises, walks to and fro.] I 
can network; lam too uneasy. [Looks out; returns.] I 
do not hear a soul stirring. Where can Philip be? [Sighs.] 
I will read. [Takes seat, reads a moment, throws down hook, 
rises, weilks, wrings her hands.] O, I can not read. I can't 
fix my mind on any thing. What on earth can be the mat- 
ter ? Surely nobody has murdered him ! O, this suspense 
is awful! I will call the servants, lie may have had a 
spasm. [Starts to go; stops, puts her hand to her ear.] I 
hear a noise ! [Slight noise of footsteps heard outside.] That 
is not his footstep — it is too irregular. [ Whistle heard out- 
side^ It cannot be Philip; he never whistles. [Singing in 
a half-drunken tone heard outside.] I am more puzzled, for 
Philip does n't sing. [Looks out.] And yet I see, by the 
moonlight, it is his overcoat, and his hat; but how he 
walks ! I do believe he is staggering! Yes, yes [claps her 
hand in glee\\ it is Philip. [Starts forward.] 



THE RELIEF AID SEWING SOCIETY. 161 



Enter Philip Jones; staggers across the stage, almost knock- 
ing Mrs. Jones down. Mights himself; leers at Mrs. Jones. 

Philip. Is that you, my duck? Why [hie] am't you in 

bed. hey \ 

Mrs. Jones (indignantly). Philip Jones! 

Philip. I am here to answer. That is my name. And 
now [hie] is there any thing that Mr. P. Jones can do to 
[hie] accommodate Mrs. P. Jones? [Mrs. Jones puts hand- 
kerchief to her face ; sinks into chair, Philip looks at her ; 
staggers toward her.] I say [hie], Mrs. P. Jones, is there 
any thing Mr. P. Jones can do [7hic] to ac — 

Mrs. Jones (rises indignantly): Don't come near me, you 
brute — do n't pollute me by touching me ! [Aside.] O, how 
can I speak cross? [Covers her face witli handkerchief; looks 
up.] Are you not ashamed of yourself I 

Philip (looks down at himself). Mel ashamed of your- 
self? No; Mrs. P. Jones, you are not ashamed of myself. 

Mrs. Jones (sols). O, Philip, did I think I would ever 
see this? [Aside,] He is drunk. 

Philip. See this? Yes. Mrs. P. Jones [hie]., and much 
more. [Takes a green glass tickler, half filled with whisky, 
from Jus pocket; looks at it. holding it let ween him and 
light,] Jack-ee ! [Approaches Mrs. Jones.] 

Mrs. Jones (shrinks.) The horrid, miserable stuff! 

Philip. Do n't put on [hie] airs, now. You know. Mrs. 
P. Jones, that a [hie] little Y\dll do you good. For by 
pouring sperrits down [hie — staggers] we raise our sjjerrits 
up. Jackee! 

Mrs. Jones (aside). O, isn't this terrible! [To Philip.] 
Philip Jones, do you dare to insult me by ottering me 
whisky ? 

Philip (turns oottle over and over in his hands, takes cork 
out. sniells it). Yes, Mrs. P. [hie] Jones, it is whisky. 

Mrs. Jones (excitedly). The idea of such vulgarity! If I 
were so low down as to drink whisky, I would not disgrace 
myself still more by drinking it from a green glass tickler ! 
Bah! [Tosses her head and wedks to and fro. Aside.] 0, 
I shall die, I know I will ! 

Philip (looks at dottle). Yes, Mrs. P. Jones, it is a grass- 
green tickler; but [hie], but are you aware of one fact, .that 
[hie]. [Approaches Mrs. Jones. She curls her lip, 'folds 



168 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

her arms, looks defiant."] Allow me to [hie] inform you, Mrs. 
P. Jones, that the article called [hie] whisky — this [hie] 
article — [puts it to his mouth] — tastes just as good out of a 
grass-green tickler [hie] as it does out of a — [staggers around 
sta.gr] — jackee! 

Mrs. Jones (desperately). Philip Jones, you have for- 
feited the respect of all decent people ! [Aside]. How can 
I talk to him? [To Philip.] You have disgraced yourself 
and me ; and now, for Heaven's sake, go to bed before the 
servants find it out, and it is all over town that you are — 
[Covers face with her hands.] 

Philip. Speak it out; don't be [hie] afraid. Say it. 
Gen-tle-man-ly in-e-bri-a-ted — hey ? 

Mrs. Jones (stamps her foot). No, sir! Not gentlemanly 
inebriated; but beastly — [Sobs.] 

Philip. Say it, Mrs. [hie] P. Jones, say it; but before 
you do say it [hie] take a little. [Hands bottle.] 

Mrs. Jones (recoils). Dare to hand me that vulgar bottle ! 
You are a brute ! 

Philip (staggers back; rights himself up ; in a loud tone). 
Mrs. P. Jones, do n't you [hie] believe the Bible, hey ? 

Mrs. Jones. Of course I believe the Bible. 

Philip. Well [hie], then; ad-mit you believe the Bible. 
Don't Paul say to Tim-[/w'c]-othy, take a little for your 
[hie] stomach's sake, hey ? 

Mrs. Jones (approaches Philip ; takes his arm). Philip, 
dear, won't you go to bed ? 

Philip (loosens himself from Mrs. Jones's hand). Damn 
the bed ! 

Mrs. Jones (starts back, amazed). O, Philip! and you a 
member of the church ! 

Philip. Yes, Mrs. P. Jones, one of the [hie] pillars of the 
Sane — tu — a-ry ! Jack-00 / 

Mrs. Jones (aside). What shall I do? [To Philip.] 
Philip, you must go to bed. 

Philip. Mrs. P. Jones, answer me [hie] this. Why do 
you [hie] go to bed, hey ? For the simple reason that [hie] 
the bed won't come to you. Do ye see, hey ? 

Mrs. Jones. O, Philip ! 

Philip. I say, like the [hie] immortal Toodles, emphati- 
cally [hie], religiously, morally, damn the bed! [Noise 
heard without.] 



THE RELIEF AID SEWING SOCIETY. 169 

Mrs. Jones (terrified, runs to Philip, jerks off his hat, 
putts the collar of his coat back, and pushes him in the direc- 
tion of the lounge). Philip Jones, you shall go to bed. It 
is nearly day, and the servants will soon be up, and if they 
see you the whole town will know it. 

Philip (seats himself on the side of the ted). Mrs. P. 
Jones, you are my lawful, wedded wife — ain't ye ? 

Mrs. Jones (covers her face with handkerchief). Yes, 
Philip. 

Philip. And I am your [hie] lawful, wedded husband — 
ain't I, hey ? 

Mrs. Jones (aside). This will kill me. [^Philip.] Of 
course you are. 

Philip. Well, then, as you are [hie] my lawful, wedded 
husband, and I am [hie] your lawful, wedded wife, answer 
me this: which has [hie] the right to put [hie] t'other to 
bed — hey ? 

Mrs. Jones. Please, Philip, stop talking and go to bed. 

Philip. I will compromise. Now [hie], listen. If you 
have the right to [hie] make — [Noise heard without.] 

Mrs. Jones (desperately). Philip, for Heaven's sake, go 
to bed — 

Philip. Well, Mrs. P. Jones, as you [hie] appear so 
anxious for me to [hie] retire, I will do so if you will prom- 
ise [hie] one thing. 

Mrs. Jones. What, Philip, what? 

Philip. Why, that you will [hie] not leave me. 

Mrs. Jones. I will not leave you, Philip. 

Philip. 'Pon honor [hie], hey? 

Mrs. Jones. Upon honor, Philip. 

Philip. That won't do, Mrs. P. Jones. You [hie] must 
swear ! 

Mrs. Jones. Well, I swear. I '11 do any thing if you 
will go to bed. 

Philip. You say [hie] you '11 swear ? 

Mrs. Jones (impatiently). Yes, I swear. [Aside.] O, 
mercy ! [Philip rises, throws off overcoat, and falls heavily 
on the lounge. Mrs. Jones covers him carefully with the coat; 
takes a seat and buries her head in her lap ; sobs.] 

Philip (from the bed). I say, Mrs. P. Jones, did [hie] 
you swear you would n't leave me ? 

Mrs. Jones. Yes, Philip, I did. Please go to sleep. 



170 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Philip. Well, going to bed [Mc] is one tiling, and going 
to [Mc] sleep is another thing. Jack-ee ! 

Mrs. Jones. I know it. [In a second or tico Philip 
breathes or snores heavily. Mrs. Jones comes forward softly; 
takes a seat near front of stage; clasps her hands.] The 
greatest trouble of my life has come upon me. \ Looks 
toward, bed.'] What shall I do? [Looks toward audience.] 
Old Mrs. Martin was right. It is better to keep quiet. 
What will Mrs. McBricle, and Mrs. Briggs, and all of them, 
say ? [Looks toward bed.] I wonder if they will find it out ? 
[Looks toward audience.] I wish I knew if any one saw him 
as he came home. I can never hold up my head again. 
Yes, as old Mrs. Martin said, I '11 hide it from the world if 
I can. O, how can I bear the disgrace ? It will kill me ! 
[Buries her face in her handkerchief ; sobs. Philip rises 
softly in a sitting posture, and looks quizzically at Mrs. Jones. 
She raises her head and looks toicard the bed.] 

Philip (in a natural tone). Are you the woman, Janey, 
who, only last evening, vowed that if your husband got 
drunk you would not live with him another day ? 

Mrs. Jones (rises and approaches Philip ; puts her hand 
on his forehead.) And are you not drunk, Philip ? 

Philip (rises, takes Mrs. Jones's hand, and leads her to 
front of stage). No, Janey, I am not; and, thank Heaven, 
I never was drunk. I was only quizzing you, to prove how 
foolish was the vow you made against your husband. 

Mrs. Jones. So foolish, Philip, that I will now promise 
never to make another like it. Ladies, take warning. 

(Curtain falls.) 



COSTUMES. 

TSTo costume is needed in this play, but walking and home 

dresses. 



HEALTH VS. RICHES. 171 



HEALTH vs. RICHES. 



CHARACTERS. 

Mrs. Brown. 

Carrie, Daughter to Mrs. Brown. 

Susan Slate, a Sewing Girl. 



SCENE. 



Room poorly out neatly furnished,, Mrs. Brown seated near 
a table at work. Enter Carres. 

Mrs. Brown. How did you enjoy your walk, my dear 
daughter ? 

Carrie. O, mamma, I enjoyed it very much at first; but 
while I was running so happy, gathering flowers, Colonel 
Bloomingtohs fine carriage came along, and in it was his 
daughter Lulie. She was dressed in silk, with a velvet hat 
and feathers, and had two or three servants waiting upon 
her. She stopped and made the footman gather some blue- 
bottles and daisies, and sat so grand in the carriage, giving 
orders just like a queen. 

Mrs. Brown. Well, my child, what of all this ? 

Carrie. O, nothing ; only I wondered why she should 
be so rich while I am so poor. She is no larger than I am : 
and not half so good. § 

Mrs. Brown. Indeed ; and how did you make this dis- 
covery ? 

Carrie. Why, she was too lazy to get out of the car- 
riage and run after the flowers for herself. But I know one 
thing, she has got to die some day, as well as myself. 

Mrs. Brown. Why, Carrie, I am surprised to hear you 
talk in this manner. Why should it fret you because Lulie 
Bloomington is rich ? 

Carrie. I do n't know ; but it made me mad to think 



172 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

about it, and I threw my bouquet away and came home. I 
wonder why / can't have a fine house and lide in a car- 
riage ? I felt ashamed when I saw this girl looking at my 
homespun dress, for she just gazed at me. 

Mrs. Brown. It is not only very foolish, but extremely 
wicked, for you, my daughter, to indulge in feelings of 
envy and discontent. The Lord knows what is best for 
every one. He gives riches to those whom it will not injure, 
often; and others he permits to remain poor in accordance 
with his divine wisdom. 

Carrie. Well, it do n't look right to me for one person 
to be set up above another. I have just as much right to 
be rich as Lulie Bloomington, and I know she made fun of 
my coarse dress. 

Enter Susan Slate. 

Mrs. Brown. Good morning, Susan. I have not seen 
you for some time. Have a seat. 

Susan. ISTo, thank you ; I have n't time to stay. I was 
on my way from Colonel Bloomington's, and thought I 
would stop a minute. 

Carrie. O, Susan, do tell me about all the line things 
they have there ; for I am sure they must be very happy. 

Susan. Indeed, you are very much mistaken. I would 
rather be you than Lu. Bloomington. 

Carrie. O, Susan ! Why, she has every thing that heart 
can wish ; a fine house, and tine clothes, and a fine carriage, 
and — 

Susan. Not so fast, Miss Carrie. You see, I went to 
Colonel Bloomington's this very morning, to take home 
some work I had been doing for them ; and while I was 
there they brought Miss Lulie in the house and laid her on 
the sofa, and I never felt so sorry for any body in my life. 

Carrie. What was the matter ; was she sick ? 

Susan. No, not exactly sick ; but you see she can't walk 
the first step that ever was ordered — 

Carrie (in surprise). Can't walk? 

Susan. No, not a living step. She was born lame ; her 
feet are deformed in some way, and her mother says the 
poor child is never well. 

Carrie. Is it possible ? 

Susan. Yes ; and what 's more, she was crying like her 



HEALTH VS. RICHES. 173 

heart would break. She said that while she was out riding 

she saw a beautiful, rosy little girl, just her own age. run- 
ning about gathering flowers so happy, and that she would 
give the world if she was as well and happy as that little 
girl. Her mother tried to comfort her. but it were n't no 
use. Her mother said, well, Lulie. the girl you saw was 
poor, for you said she had on a homespun dress, and you 
are rich and wear silk dresses, and ride in a fine carriage. 
At this she cried harder than ever, and said she would be 
willing to be poor and wear homespun all her life if she 
just had the use of her limbs like that little girl. Her 
mother then told her it was the will of the Lord for her to 
be lame, and she must pray to him to make her contented 
with her lot. and she told her mother she would try : but. 
as I said before, I left her crying. But. law. I am over- 
staying inv time. Good-bv. Mrs. Brown: good-by, Miss 
Carrier - [Exit Stjsak.] 

Mrs. Browx. Now. you see. my dear child, while you 
were envying this poor girl her riches, she was wishing to 
be like you. healthy and active. I hope this will be a lesson 
to you. to be content with your lot. 

Carrie. I hope that God will forgive me for my wicked 
feelings, for it was very wrong for me to speak as I did: 
and now I would rather be poor and have to sew for my 
living, like Susan Slate, than to be deformed and sickly. 
like Lulie Bloomingtun. with all her money. 

(Curtain J ((Us.) 



.<4 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



THE MINISTER'S GUESTS. 



CHAEACTEES. 

Mr. Allston Granger, the Minister, 

Elinor, the Minister's Wife. 

Aunt Peggy, the Minister's Aunt. 

Eev. Asa Downe. 

Mrs. Asa Downe. 

Abel, ) 

Nicodemus, > Children of Mr. Downe. 

Priscilla, ) 

Bridget, an Irish Servant Girl. 



SCENE I. 



A family room, or reception room. On a small table is a 
China mug, a candlestick,, with a candle in it, a photograph 
album, and a hair brush, icith inlaid pearl handle. Elinor 
and Aunt Peggy seated opposite each other. 

Aunt Peggy. Elinor, I do n't blame you, child, because 
I knov\ r you love Allston, and lie is a good husband and a 
clever gentleman ; but a woman who marries a minister is, 
in my opinion, doing a poor business. 

Elinor. But, Aunt Peggy, Allston is so kind, and so 
thoughtful of my comfort in every particular. 

Aunt Peggy. Yes, yes, I know all that; but I know, 
too, the trials that a minister's wife is subject to. Upon my 
word, if I were compelled to make a choice between a 
gambler and a minister for a husband, I should take the 
gambler. 

Elinor. Why, Aunt Peggy! A woman of your age 
and noted morality to make such a speech ! I am aston- 
ished ! 

Aunt Peggy. I am not surprised at your being shocked ; 
but, Elinor, I only speak the truth when I say that ministers' 



the minister's guests. 175 

wives are the greatest slaves on earth. A minister is ex- 
pected to keep a hotel, and that. too. without money and 
without price. His house must be open day and night. Hot 
meals must be served at all hours. Peoj^le who are too low- 
to stay at the tavern are sent to the minister's. Tract-ped- 
dlers, book -peddlers, lecturers, agents, every body goes to 
the minister's : and then if he pleads an over- worked wife 
and poor salary, he is piously reminded that St. Paul and 
St. Peter, and all those fellows, never would receive a 
salary. But whether these saints kept tavern and enter- 
tamed all creation, free of charge, doesn't appear, 

Elinor. We have been keeping house only a month, 
and I am sure we have not had a great deal of company. 

Aunt Peggy. You have n't ? Who went from here only 
this morning ? Why, three ministers and one book-peddler. 
You waited on them until your head aches fit to burst now. 
And, Saturday night as it is, I wouldn't wonder if some 
one else comes to sponge on you till Monday morning. 

Elinor (puts her hand to her head). I hope not. 

Enter Mr. Granger, 

Mr. Granger (approaches Elinor). Well, Elinor. I have 
finished my sermon, and. with a good night's rest, can de- 
liver it to-morrow hi a manner acceptable to our congrega- 
tion. [Tales sermon from his pocket; puts it on the talle.'] 

Aunt Peggy. I can't see how you did to write it with 
the house full of company. 

Mr. Granger. But the company is gone now, and we 
shall be able to get every thing in order by church time. 

Aunt Peggy. Do n't hollo till you get out of the woods. 

Enter Bridget. 

Bridget. Misther Granger, there is a gintleman below 
stairs wishes to see ye. 

Aunt Peggy {triuraphardrf). I said so ! 

Mr. Granger (ta Bridget). A gentleman! "Who is it? 

Bridget. An 1 shure, how can I tell, plaze yer worship, 
when I niver saw his ugly face before. An' there's a ledcly 
beside, as big as the side of a house, and three childer in 
the bargain. 

Elinor (puts lier hand to her head). O, mercy! and my 
head aching as it is ! 



176 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Bridget. Faith, and what I tell you, ma'am, is all thrue. 
And thin there are iver so many thrunks, and boxes, and 
bundles, and a saucy poodle dog for good maisure. 

Mr. Granger. This is unaccountable. [To Bridget.] 
Go and invite them up. [Exit Bridget. To Aunt Peggy.] 
Who can be coming here this time of night ? There must 
be some mistake. 

Aunt Peggy (bridling). I'll warrant there is no mis- 
take ; and if you and Elinor permit yourselves to be im- 
posed upon in this way, you can entertain your guests your- 
selves without my assistance. [Exit angrily.'] 

Enter Rev. Asa Downe, Mrs. Downe, Abel, Priscxlla, and 
Nicodemus, the latter bearing a 'poodle in his arms. 

Downe {approaches Mr. Granger; grasps his hand cor- 
dially). Dear brother Granger, I am the Reverend Asa 
Downe, traveling itinerant, and this [points to Mrs. Downe] 
is my wife, and these [points to children] are my children, 
Abel, Mcodemus, and Priscilla. We came directly to your 
house, because we knew you would be mortally offended if 
we did n't. My wife is a great invalid, a dreadful sufferer ; 
been sick for seven years; and, while I think of it, we 
must sleep where there is a fire. I would n't have my dear 
Eliza Jane to sleep without a fire for a thousand dollars ; 
and I want your wife to have the sheets well aired. My 
wife is nervous, very nervous, exceedingly nervous. She 
wouldn't sleep a wink in coarse sheets — would you, my 
dear ? 

Mrs. Downe. No, indeed ; I would die before day if I 
were to sleep in coarse sheets. I came very near going to 
my last home, about a week ago, from sleeping on an un- 
bleached pillow-case. They thought I was dead for two 
hours ! Dear me ! [Looks around.] Have you a stuffed 
chair ? I can not sit on an uncushioned chair. [Looks at 
Elinor.] And I will take a cup of tea and a bowl of 
oyster soup, or some mince-pie. I feel so faint. [Sinks on 
the easy chair.] 

Downe (sits). And, sister Granger, I will trouble you 
for a cup of coffee. It will be a stay for my stomach till 
supper is ready. What time do you have tea ? 

Elinor (aside). Supper has been over two hours. 

Abel. And I want some gingerbread and milk and 



THE MINISTER'S GUESTS. 177 

lioney, and cold pie. I 'm half starved. Where is the cup- 
board ? I can help myself. 

Priscilla. And I want a doughnut and some pickle. 
Pickle and cake is so good together ; and if I can't have 
that rocking-chair to sit in, I won't stay here. You see if 
I do. 

Nicodemus {holes around). W-h-e-w! What a mean 
little room, by crackee! What's that on the table? 0, 
golly ! if it ain't: a mug just like one I used to have. [Goes 
to table; takes the mug in his hand; lets it fall and breaks 
it.] How! [Looks down.] It is slippery ! [Mr. Granger 
stoops; picks up the broken mug ; looks grave.] 

Mrs. Downe. O, it 's no matter, brother Granger. You 
can mend it with Spalding's glue. I mended a bowl with 
it not long ago, and it was as good as new. [To Elinor.] 
You do n't look much like a preacher's wife. I see you 
have a red ribbon on your head — too stylish, too stylish ; 
and ear-rings, too. Now, I never wear such things, but try 
to be as plain as possible. 

Elinor {aside). You needn't try very hard, I'm sure. 

Downe. My wife is a model, brother Granger. Would 
there were more like her. Eliza Jane, love, you ought to 
have a bath. Will you see, sister Granger, that she has 
one? 

Elinor {takes candle in her hand). Allow^ me, Mr. Downe, 
to show you and Mrs. Downe and the children to your 
room, where you can take off your things and rest till sup- 
per is ready. 

Abel. Good for that. I 'm tired of this old room 
already. [They all prepare to go.] 

Priscilla. So am I. I wonder how long we shall have 
to wait for supper. 

Nicodemus {to Elinor). Is our room any nicer than this 
one ? Because if it ain't I do n't mean to stay. 

Mrs. Downe (looks back). Silence, Nicodemus. 

[Exeunt Mr. and Mrs. Downe, Abel, Nicodemus, 
Priscilla, and Elinor.] 

Mr. Granger. Well, this is an unexpected trial upon 
poor Elinor. I do not know what it will result in ; but this 
comes of being a minister. 

{Curtain falls.) 



178 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



SCENE EL 

'Same room. Mr. and Mrs. Downe seated near each other. 
Abel, Nicodemtjs, and Priscilla seated on the floor. 
Abel has a 'pair of scissors cutting Mr. Granger's sermon 
into various forms. Priscilla has a photograph album, 
turning the leaves in a careless and destructive manner. 
Nicodemus is holding a restive Mtten, stroking its lack with 
Elinor's pearl-handled hair-brush. Enter Mr. Granger. 

Mr. Granger. Good morning, Mr. Downe. I hope you 
and Mrs. Downe rested well during the night ? 

Dowke. Indeed, I never spent a more wretched night. 
I think, however, some fresh eggs, soda-crackers, dry toast, 
and some coffee and cream and honey for my breakfast, 
will make "Richard himself again." Eliza Jane, love, how 
do you feel this morning ? 

Mrs. Downe (rolls up her eyes). Dear me; I never slept 
a wink the whole night. I am sure the bed was filled with 
hens' feathers, and I never could sleep on liens' feathers; 
they always stuff me up so. I feel as if I were smothering. 

Mr. Granger (discovers his sermon ; snatches a piece of it 
from Abel). Why, child! this is my sermon you have cut 
to pieces. How dare you — 

Mrs. Downe (interrupts Mr. Granger). Law, sakes! 
Do n't take on so; they didn't mean any harm, bless 'em. 

Mr. Granger (in a provoked tone). I think, madam, 
children should be taught not to meddle with such things. 

Mrs. Downe. Well, you needn't swallow me, brother 
Granger. ' For my part, I did n't know that ministers ever 
lost their temper. Asa never does ; and I guess our children 
have cut up twenty of his sermons. What does it matter ? 
You no doubt have plenty of other sermons, and children 
must have amusement ; they require it I 

Mr. Granger (perceives Priscilla with the album; ap- 
proaches her, and attempts to take it from her). My dear, 
give me that album ; it is no plaything for you. It was a 
bridal present to my wife, and she prizes it very much. 
[Priscella clasps album to her breast and runs between Mr. 
Downe' s knees, whining. ~\ 

Downe. Priscy, dear, give brother. Granger the album; 
do, dear. [Priscilla screams and hugs the book closer.] 



THE MINISTER'S GUESTS. 179 

Mrs. Downe. O, Asa, let the poor child alone. You 
make me nervous ! Suppose it was a bridal present. Brother 
Granger has been married long enough for the honeymoon 
to be over; and when that happens, bridal presents are 
played out. Besides, what is a photograph album ? They 
are as common as kraut. 

Abel. I wonder if that dogon old breakfast ain't 
ready. I'm so awful hungry. {Looks toicard Xicodemus.] 
Mother, make Mc give me that kitten. 

Nicodemxts (throws cat at Abel). Take the old cat and 
go to thunder. 

Mrs. Downe (looks around alarmed?). O, that reminds 
me ! Children, where is Fan ? 

Mr. Granger. Who is "Fan?" 

Mrs. Downe. Why, my lap-dog; where can it be ? 

Abel (grins). We 've had a funeral ! 

Mrs. Downe (half shrieks). A funeral ! What do you mean? 

Necodemtts. I '11 tell you, mother. Fan is in Mrs. Gran- 
ger's work-box, buried in the garden. 

Mrs. Downe. What ! Fan ! My precious Fan ! Buried ? 

jSTicodemus. Yes, indeed! Abe preached the funeral, 
and Pris and I went as mourners, and. Abe was sexton, too. 
O, crackee ! was n't it jolly ! [Mrs. Downe rocks to and fro; 
wrings her hands; moans.] 

Downe. You naughty boy ; go this instant and bring 
the box here, before your mother has spasms. 

[Exeunt Abel, Nicodemus and Pbisctlla.] 

Mr. Granger. Your children do not seem to be under 
much control. I am sure they would be much happier if 
they were trained to be orderly and obedient. 

Mrs. Downe (recovering). Brother Granger, I am aston- 
ished ; there never were more obedient, lovely children than 
mine. Did you observe how readily Abel obeyed his father 
when he told him to bring the work-box and dog ? 

Downe. Yes, brother Granger, and I attribute it all to 
my dear Eliza Jane. She is a pattern wife and mother. 
Would there were more like her. 

Mr. Granger (aside). Heaven forbid ! 

Enter Abel, Nicodemus, and Priscilla. They put the dox 
on the floor, open it; dog jumps out. 

Mrs. Downe. 0, gracious me ! I am dying ! To think 



180 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



of my poor Fan being buried ! It is too much for my weak 
nerves. Farewell, Asa. [Falls back in chair, .] 

JSTicodemus (in front of stage, to Abel). Abe, Abe! Say, 
if mother dies sure enough, this time, call me. I want to 
go out and play with the kitten. [Exit Nicodemus.] 

Downe {supports Mrs. Downe.) O, dear! O, dear! She 
is dying at last. My poor Eliza Jane ! Get the camphor ! 
Get some ice lemonade ! {Enter Aunt Peggy, Elinor, and 
Bridget.) Wring some flannel out of hot, hot water. To 
think she 's been sick for seven years, and now, after all, 
she 's dead ! She 's dead ! [ Weeps.] 

Aunt Peggy {comes forward). If she is dead, I guess the 
sooner she is laid out the better. You 've got rid of a great 
burden, Mr. Downe. A wife that has been seven years dy- 
ing must be dreadful to get along with, and you ought to 
thank the Lord she is gone. Allston, go and get a plank 
to stretch her on. [To Elinor.] Elinor, hand me the scis- 
sors. [Takes hold of Mrs. Downe' s head.] I '11 cut her hair 
off first. It will make somebod}^ a waterfall ; and the way 
hair sells, it will nearly pay for her coffin. 

Mrs. Downe {starts from the chair; seizes Aunt Peggy by 
the arm). You '11 have my hair off, will you, and sell it to 
buy a coffin ? I '11 take your skull- cap off first, see if I 
don't! [Jerks off Aunt Peggy's false front]. I'll peel 
your old pate faster than a Cherokee Indian would do it, 
you old Jezebel ! 

Aunt Peggy {runs to the broom; seizes it, and pummels 
Mrs. Downe off the stage). I'll show you what it is to 
come into people's houses and find fault and put on airs. 
[Turns upon Mr. Downe, ivho also retreats. Turns on Abel 
and Prisctlla.] I '11 let you know, you spoiled brats, what 
it is to cut up sermons and bury live dogs in work-boxes. 
[Abel and Phiscilla retreat screaming.] 

Bridget {pitching the band-boxes and bundles after them). 
An' faith, Misthress Peggy, I '11 be afther helpin' ye to turn 
the spalpeens out; for divil a bit of comfort is there in the 
house with the likes of them. [Jerks the lap-dog from Eli- 
nor, wTio, in the confusion, had picked it up ; throws it after 
the boxes.] And I'll sind the mite of a puppy afther ye for 
good luck. 

{Curtain falls.) 



MARRYING A FORTUNE. 181 



MARRYING A FORTUNE. 

DRAMATIZED FROM A MAGAZINE STORY. 



CHARACTERS. 

Kate Barton. 

Jennie Campbell. 
Dr. Campbell. 
Mr. Ettzfoone. 

Xed Leland. 
Philip Otis. 

Ladies and Gentlemen in attendance. 

Servant. 



SCEXE I. 



Kate and Jennie seated, near each other, one holding a fan. 
the other a bouquet. Home scene. 

Jennie. Kate, since we have come to the city to live 
there is one thing that troubles me very much. 

Kate. TVhat on earth can trouble you \ 

Jennie. Why. you knovr I have lately come into the 
possession of fifty thousand dollars, and as we are soon to 
make our debut into society. I dread the score of hollow- 
hearted admirers and scheming fortune -hunters that will be 
paying attention to me for the sake of money. 

Kate. O, is that all \ "Well, my cousin, if you will aid 
me. I will take it upon myself to outwit all such characters. 

Jennie. THiat can you do ? 

Kate. If you and uncle Campbell will lend yourselves 
to the plot, I can soon test the sincerity of all the wife- 
seeking beaux that come about us. 

Jennie (looks toward entrance). Well, here comes my 
father, and you can explain yourself. 



182 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 



Enter Dr. Campbell. 

Dr. Campbell (seats himself). Well, young ladies, what 
is troubling your heads this morning ? Are you consulting 
about the dresses you are to appear in this evening at the 
party? I want, before you go, to give you some advice; 
and, my daughter, I wish you to be on your guard against 
fortune-hunters. 

Jennie. We were just speaking on that subject before 
you came in. 

Kate. And I was telling Jennie, if you and she will 
assist me, I will deceive this class of individuals. 

Dr. Campbell. You must explain yourself. 

Kate. It is soon explained. No one knows of Jennie's 
newly-acquired fortune, and it will be very easy to mislead 
all interested admirers. 

Dr. Campbell. Let us hear your plan. 

Jennie. Do, Kate ; I am anxious to know it. 

Kate. Allow me to assume a manner and dress entirely 
opposite to my real character. I can transform my person 
so that even you will not recognize me ; and, when this is 
done, introduce me into society as the heiress. I will take 
upon me the style of an uncultivated rustic, and then if I 
succeed in making a conquest it will be for myself alone. 

Dr. Campbell. This is all very well if you can carry it 
out. But I fear you will betray yourself. 

Jennie. Do you think you can succeed ? 

Kate. I know I can if you and uncle Campbell will 
humor the joke. 

Dr. Campbell. You talk like a sensible girl; and if 
that is all depend upon me, for I think it will be a capital 
joke. 

Kate. Capital, indeed ! And by it Jennie wall find out 
if there is a heart disinterested enough to love her for her- 
self alone. 

Dr. Campbell. And if you are successful, Kate [they all 
rise and come for war d\ I will say I have seen what I never 
expected to see — a woman sharp enough to outwit a for- 
tune-hunter. 



( Curtain falls.) 



MARRYING A FORTUNE. 



SCENE H. 

A ocdl-room. Ladies and, gentlemen promenading at 
and, sides of stage, conversing in pantomime. Jenhie lean- 
ing on Dr. Campbell's arm; near tliem. Kate. In front 
of stage, Fitzfoone, Lelaxd. and Otis. 

Otis. Who is she. Xed [loolss at Jenxle]. that lovely 
girl with Dr. Campbell ? 

Xed. 0. that 's the Doctor's daughter. Miss Jennie Camp- 
bell, and the other lady near them is his niece, Miss Kate 
Barton, an heiress of fifty thousand. 

Otis. She is decidedly plain, if she is an heiress. What 
horrid red hair, and that shocking yellow dress ; and. then 
look, her cheeks are fairly daubed with paint. She cer- 
tainly has no taste. 

Fitzfooxe. What a deuced pity now that that chawm- 
ing cweature. Miss Campbell, had nit the money, instead of 
her tawdry cousin. I would cultiwate her acquaintance if 
she had. [Turns to audience and struts about,"] But it 
would nevaw do for Mr. Fitzfoone to thwow himself away 
upon a poor girl. I think, though. I'll be intwoduced to 
the heiress any way. Fifty thousand is not to be gwind at. 

Xed. That 's a fact. Fitz : so come and I Tl introduce 
you. [TJiey approach Kate. Jexxte. and Dr. Campbell.] 
Miss Barton, allow me to introduce to you Mr. Fitzfoone. 
an English gentleman of rank, who desires to make your 
acquaintance. 

Fitzfoone. I am happy to meet you. Miss Bawton. Hope 
you are well ? 

Kate. Pretty well, thank ye. [Shakes 'Eirzwooim's hand 
violently.] I hope you're well, though you don't look 
much smart ? 

Fitzeooxe. O, I assure you my health is foine. 

Kate. I 'm glad to hear it ; but you do look 'niazhr 
slim. But. then, it 's the fashion to look like a candle, and 
I 'in going to eat pickle and stint myself till I get poor as a 
snake, for I want to look fashionable and citified, 'cause 
I 'm an heiress, you see. and have to catch a husband. 

Fitzeooxe. Will you allow me to bwing you some sup- 
paw? 



184 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Kate. Pshaw ! I aint hungry a mite. You see, I never 
was at a party Jo ef ore, and I don't feel like I'd ever eat 
another mouthful. 

Fitzfoone. Perhaps you 'd take an ice cweam or some 
jelly? 

Kate. I hate ice cream ; it makes my teeth ache. I 've 
got a hollow in one of them, and when the cold strikes 
it, O, jiminy, how it jumps! What's the jellv made out 
of? 

Fitzfoone. Calves' feet, I pwesurue. 

Kate. Calves' feet ! Well, I believe I won't take none, 
for it can't be clean if its made out of them. 

Fitzfoone. I pwesume you 've lived in the country ? 

Kate. O, yes ; I 'm a real country bumpkin, and I do n't 
believe I '11 ever get used to city doings. You see, I always 
went to bed at dark before I come here. [Tenons.] Setting 
up late don't suit me. [To Dr. Campbell.] Uncle, ain't it 
most time to go home ? I 'm powerful sleepy. 

Dr. Campbell (suppr 'esses a smile). Any time that suits 
your convenience, my dear. 

Kate (takes Dr. Campbell's arm). Well, Mr. ^itz-fool, 
or whatever your name is, we '11 have to bid you good night. 
[Courtesies loic and aioJcwardly.] Come round some time 
and take grub with us. Can't he, uncle ? 

Dr. Campbell. Certainly, my dear. Mr. Fitzfoone, we 
will be pleased to see you on Walnut Street any time that 
suits your convenience. 

Fitzfoone (botes low). Thank you, Doctaw. I'll do 
myself the honaw. 

[Exit Dr. Campbell, Kate and Jennie.] 

Fitzfoone (comes forward). She is gawky, but I can't 
stop to be squeamish now. I am bound to make a strike 
for money. Fifty thousand is a nice sum. I am so con- 
foundedly in debt I can't stir without being dunned. There is 
the tailor, and the shoemaker, and that old rip of a washer- 
woman, all at my heels, like so many hungry dogs, and my 
landlord is getting suspicious. There is nothing for me to 
do but marry that dawdy country girl. But once let me 
get the fifty thousand in my pocket and won't I show a pair 
of light heels. It 's a deuced pity for a fine-looking fellow 
like me to be sacrificed ; but it can't be helped. I wish 
her head was not quite so bushy ; but, never mind, money 



MARRYING A FORTUNE. 185 

hides a multitude of faults. Bei re m ay lays pass. Miss 
Kate Barton will be Mrs. Fitzfoone. [B 

I G .:■:■ ' f 

"■".. a Fitzfoone con bs forward, after Dr. Campbell, Kai . m I Jennie exit, 
all on a stage mast fall back. Oris mas: i »in Jennie and ap] ear engrossed 
ith iier. 



SCENE in. 
Same is first. E ter Dr. Campbell, Kate, a id Jennie. 

Dr. Campbell. "Well, girls, a pretty rig you are leading 
Here is Kate making a fright : hers if with that wig 
and yellow are—. No w ndei she scared aU the 

y. I was diverted at the way the young fell >ws looked 
at her last night. 

Kate. But you f a - Mr. Fitzfoone. uncle. I am soi 
played the agreeable, but it cost Mm an effort : and 
Jennie did not suffer for attention, for Mr. Philip Oris was 
lev ced to her. I would give al] tune, nd the wig 

and yellow dress to boot, to have so disinterest • I a lover. 

Jennie. Y< >u make a fine country girl. I thought I 
w " a Fit ne a>k«?d yon t \ v ice cream 

and jelly. He 1 ked s tunny when yon said it was not 
clean. He is taken with the fortune, I see, nd will soon 
b - an avowed 1< 

Dr. Campbell. A trifling puppy! And. Kate, I don't 
care how mucn iz hint; he . - arv< sit. Ent Serv- 

ant; \ r to Dr. Campbell.] By the living piper. 

- the fellow's card. He is I iting at the bait. [To 
Servant." Go. in wit e him in. But. girls. I must leave you 
to fight your own battles. Exit Dr. Campbell — L~ 

E ter Fitzfoone — JR. 

Kate i • h es). Good morning, Mr. Y&z-fool. This is 
my cousin. Jennie. [Presents Jexnie. Fitzfoone I to& 

:: .] Why don't you speak to my cousin Jennie; 

Do n't you see her : 

Fttze cye. 0. yes. 3Iiss Bawt -. T see k::\ 

Kate. Then why in the nari d don't you speak and 

•" k h nets? Ain't that citv fashion^ [lb Jennie.1 



186 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Jennie. Yes, but sometimes people omit tlie custom. 

Kate. O, yes, it's only intimate friends that shake 
hands. Ain't that so, Mr. Fitz-fool? 

Fitzfooxe. I believe so — or those who are engaged. 

Kate. But you shook hands with me at the party, and 
we ain't engaged. That is — not yet. 

Fitzfooxe (aside to Kate). Nobody knows what may 
happen, my adowable eweature. 

Kate. O, Jennie, did you hear that ? 

Fitzfooxe (((side). Do n't tell her, Miss Bawton. 

Kate. I will tell her. Jennie, he calls me his adowable 
eweature, and looks like he thought I was good enough to 
eat. Now, Mr. Fitz-f ool, don t deny it. [Points to Fitz- 
fooxe.] 

Fitzfooxe. I do n't deny, Miss Bawton. But, changing 
the subject, do you sing? 

Kate. I sing like a martingale. I can't play on the 
piano yet, but uncle says I can learn. Jennie there can 
play, and sing, too. Sometimes I sing Old Hundred and the 
Doxologer. Maybe you 'd like to hear me. Zeb Hall used 
to admire to hear me. You see, Zeb wanted to set up to me 
after I got the fifty thousand; but I told our folks I didn't 
want a farmer, so I come up here to try some of the city 
chaps. But about singing — if you 11 pitch the tune I 'U 
sing Doxologer for you. 

Fitzfooxe. I nevaw sing. 

Kate. Well, you dance, I guess ? 

Fitzfooxe. No, miss, I nevaw dance. 

Kate. Well, in the name of gracious, what do you do ? 

Fitzfooxe. I conwerse. 

Kate. Well, 1 11 get Jennie to [exit Jexxie, unobserved 
oy Kate] pitch the tune on the piano. [Looks round.'] Bless 
goodness, she is gone. I guess she 's got the toothache, by 
her leaving in such a hurry. Well, 1 11 try and sing any- 
how. 

Fitzfooxe. Excuse me, Miss Bawton, but I have urgent 
business in the city, and must go. 

Kate. Law, sakes ! Why, you ain't set down yet. Is 
that the way city chaps spark? 

Fitzfooxe. Pardon me, but I merely came this morning 
to beg you to grant me a pwivate interview. [Falls on Ms 
knees.] I want to pour my heart out at your feet. 



MARRYING A FORTUNE. 1ST 

Kate (starts back). 0. don't. Mr. Fitzfool! You make 

me feel all overish like ! But come to-morrow afternoon at 
four o'clock, and I will get all the folks out. and we can 
have a real nice time sparking, and saying all sons of 
loving tilings to each other. 

Fitzfooxe (rises). Thank you. my angel. I will be 
punctual to the moment. [Kisses Kate's hand. Bows to 
Kate. Kate bows to Fitzfooxe. alternately* until Fitz- 
fooxe disappears from the stage.'] 

Enter Jennie. 

Jennie (falls on a chair). 0. Kate, you "will be the 

li of me yet. 

Kate. Tell me ; do I aet the role of the country girl 
well? 

Jexxle. Act well! You ought to go on the stage. 

Kate. Do you think Mr. Xed Leland suspects me \ 

Jennie. No. Why do you ask \ 

Kate. Because he looks so quizzical, and Ms manner to 
me is so courteous. 

Jennie. Ah, Kate ! Take care. Ned is a charming 
fellow, and I see he has already made an impression on 
you. Take care that the biter is not bitten, my fair cousin. 

[Exit Jennie.] 

Kate (comes forward!). Her warning comes too late. 
Alas ! I am deeply interested in Mr. Leland. If I could 
know that he loves me for myself alone. I would be happy. 

Dr. Campbell (outside). Kate! Kate! 

Kate. I am coming, uncle. [Starts to god] 

(Curtain /adds.) 



SCENE IT. 

Same as first. Enter Jennie and Kate. 

Jennie. I begin to think. Kate, that Xed Leland does 
see through your disguise. He evidently admires you. and 
it is not natural that he can fancy, truly, the wig and that 
odious dress. 

Kate. If I could only be convinced that he is disin- 
terested. 



188 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Jennie. I do not think Ned Lelancl is a mercenary man. 
He is noted for being open and generous, and if he loved a 
woman I can not believe that he could be influenced by 
money. 

Kate. O, if he only loved me as Philip Otis loves you — 
for myself alone. 

Jennie. For Philip thinks I am poor, and is willing to 
take me "for better, for worse." 

Kate. Ah, Jennie, you are a happy girl. [Looks to en- 
trance.'] But, as I live, there comes that simpleton, Fitz- 
foone, again. I will give him a quietus this time. [Lools 
at her loatch.] Yes, it is precisely four o'clock. He is 
punctual. 

Jennie. I will retire and give him a clear field. 

[Exit Jennie — JR.] 

Enter Fitzpoone — L. (Kate seats herself. Fitzfoone ap- 
proaches and seats himself near Kate.) 

Fitzfoone. Ah, my dear cweature, w^ere you really ex- 
pecting me ? 

Kate. I do n't know as any one else was expecting you. 

Fitzfoone. Yes, you are the only one, the only being 
whom I would wish to expect me, or desire my coming. I 
have come, adowable cweature, to pour into your listening 
ears the secret I have kept in my heart of hearts since the 
night I first beheld you. I can keep it there no longer. 
Like a caged lion, it must be released. Can I hope that 
my love is returned by you, most chawming girl? [Falls 
upon one Jcnee'.] 

Kate. There ! I knowed it. I knowed you loved me ; 
and, this morning, when uncle came in ancl told me that 
the bank had failed, and that my fifty thousand dollars 
had took wings and flew off. I said I knowed there was one 
that would always love me, and that's you! [Fitzfoone 
starts to Ms feet ; Kate rises.] But what is the matter, my 
dear Mr. Fitzfool ? You look kinder flurried. I 'm af eard 
you are sick. Is the cholera about anywhere ? Let me get 
some camphire, and maybe you 11 come all right again. 

Fitzfoone. No, thank ye, Miss Bawton. I am better 
already. 

Kate (approaches him). Then, let's set down and talk 
it all over — love in a cottage, and all that. O, my dear Mr. 



MARRYING A FORTUNE. 189 

Fitzfool, you don't know how jolly I feel to think, now 
that all the fortune is gone, you still stick to your Katy 
darling. Come, man, you don't seem to understand. 
[Fitzfoone stares like an idiot.'] What are you staring at? 

Fitzfoone. Indeed, Miss Bawton, you have made a mis- 
take. I did not mean that I wanted to marry you. 

Kate (indignantly). Not marry me ! Did n't you get on 
your knees and look soft, and talk love, and swear I was 
your "adowable cweature"? 

Fitzfoone. You have deceived me. 

Kate (stamps lierfoot). O, you cruel, cruel man! [Goes 
toward Fitzfoone ; takes his arm.] Is this the way city 
chaps do their courting? Come along with me [pulls him 
to entrance], and I '11 make my uncle show you what it is to 
crawfish. 

Fitzfoone (struggles to release himself). Murder! Help! 
Fire! Damnation! Murder! O! 

Enter Dr. Campbell, Jennie, Ned Leland, and Philip 
Otis. (Fitzfoone jerks away from Kate and runs off' 
the stage.) 

Dr. Campbell. Ah, Kate, it is out of the question for 
you to persecute that poor devil so. Come ! come ! 

Kate. Never mind, dear uncle, we will not be troubled 
again with Mr. Fitzfoone. He lias heard of my loss of for- 
tune, and has taken to his heels to escape from his "adowa- 
ble cweature.' 1 

Dr. Campbell. You are a real mad-cap, Kate; and if 
you do not deport yourself differently in future I will ex- 
pose some of your willful conduct. 

Leland. You may spare yourself the trouble, Doctor, for 
Miss Barton was not cunning enough to deceive me. I 
have known all along that she wore a wig and used paint ; 
and though others were deceived, I saw through her dis- 
guise. Love lias sharp eyes, you see, Miss Kate. 

Kate. O, Mr. Leland, you, too, will change your opin- 
ion when you know all. Mr. Fitzfoone is not the only one 
who has been taken in. I not only borrowed the wig and 
yellow dress, but also the fifty thousand dollars with which 
to act the heiress. The fortune belongs to my cousin 
Jennie, and well have she and I carried out the plot to test 
the affection of our suitors. 



190 ORIGINAL DRAMAS. 

Leland. All, Miss Kate, you little know the depth of 
my affection. All I ask is to possess you. [Approaches 
Kate; draws her hand through Ids arm.'] 

Dr. Campbell. Well, girls, I have had two consultations 
to-day without a single fee; both on your accounts, you 
" eioeatures" But I administered the right potions and the 
patients are doing finely, and I think are strong enough to 
speak for themselves. [Looks at Otis and Leland.] 

Otis (approaches Jennie and puts her hand in his arm). 
I for one can speak. Jennie, your father has consented to 
our union, and I was willing to take you without the money, 
but must say I have no particular objection to it. 

Jennie. Very likely. But as my cousin Kate has so 
well acted her part, and with her assistance I have proved 
the truth of your affection, I will not consent to be your 
wife unless my fortune is equally divided between myself 
and Kate. 

Otis. To this I have no objection ; for I am sure Ned and 
myself have been fortunate indeed to join the hands and 
hearts of the girls we love best, without the addition of a 
fortune neither expected. 

Dr. Campbell. I think, myself, you are both extremely 
lucky. It is with my advice and sanction that Jennie di- 
vides her fortune with Kate, for both are equally dear to 
me. [Takes his position between the couples.'] 

Kate. I can find no words to express my gratitude to 
you, uncle and Jennie, for this unexpected kindness. 

Leland. And I — 

Dr. Campbell. Say no more, say no more ! If my chil- 
dren are happy I am satisfied ; and the little plot managed 
by these mischievous girls proves that there are various 
ways of Marrying a Fortune. 

(Curtain falls.) 



DECLAMATIONS. 



SALUTATORY. 



SUITABLE FOR THE EXHIBITION OF A MIXED SCHOOL. SPOKEN 
BY A BOY TEX OR TWELVE YEARS OLD. 

Our programme we have put in print, 

To give you all a friendly hint 

Of what we each intend to do 

Before the exhibition *s through. 

The boys are dressed in Sunday suits. 

With buttons bright, and genteel boots ; 

And all the girls are decked so fine 

That some of them look quite divine. 

But you must not by this suppose 

We 'Ye thought of nothing but our clothes ; 

For some of us have studied well, 

And learned to read, and write, and spell. 

It "s true, the rules we ve often broke — 

"We 've eat hi school, and sometimes spoke ; 

If we did not obey command 

Our teacher then would reprimand; 

But, to her credit, 1 11 say this : 

She never struck a lick amiss. 

And now, before I go away. 

There is one thing I wish to say : 

We ve studied hard for many days. 

Our speeches, dialogues, and plays ; 

If we should fail to act them well. 

When people ask you— -please do nt tell. 



SPEECH FOR A BOY NINE OB TEX YEARS OLD. 

The subject of my speech is odd; 

But. in these modern times, 
A poet like myself can make 

All sorts of funny rhymes. 

(191) 



192 



DECLAMATIONS. 



We have a flesh-brush at our house — 
It is about so — long;* 

? Tis shaped just like a paddle, smooth 
With handle straight and long, 

Would you believe it, if I were 

To tell you here to-night 
That mother uses this flesh-brush 

To make her chaps act right ? 

No general ever used a sword 

Upon the battle-field 
With half the skill that mother does 

This awful weapon wield. 

I did not want to speak to-night. 
But mother frowned and said, 

That if I did not come right out, 
She 'd box me on the head. 



And so I thought it was no use 
To show an angry flush ; 

I knew that if I did. not speak 
1 1 d feel that old flesh-brush. 



SPEECH FOK A GIRL EIGHT OR NINE YEARS OLD. 

I never made a speech before, 

But that 's no reason why, 
Because I never spoke before, 

I ought not now to try. 

There are some silly little girls 

Who are afraid to speak, 
For fear some one will laugh at them : 

I think this very weak. 

I hope I '11 always have the sense 

To do as I am told ; 
Then people will not laugh at me, 

Or think I am too bold. 



: Puts the forefinger of his right hand near the top of his left arm. 



SPEECHES FOB. LITTLE CHILDREN. 193 



SPEECH FOR A VERY SMALL CHILD. 



I am my papa's little pet; 

I love my book right well ; 
I hope, before another year, 

I '11 learn to read and spell. 



ANOTHER SPEECH FOR A VERY SMALL CHILD. 

I 've been to school 

And learned to spell ; 
I 've said my lessons 

Quick and well. 

And now I 'm glad 

That school is done. 
So I can play 

And have some fun. 



SPEECH FOR A SMALL BOY. 

I wish the time would ever come 

When all the little boys 
Can run and play, just as they please, 

And make a sight of noise. 

I can not ct en toMstle loud 

But some one says, u O, stop!" 
And if I crack my whip, just once, 

I'm sure to get a pop. 

And if I come into the house. 

And happen to forget. 
And leave my hat upon my head, 

It puts mam in a fret. 

O, do n't I wish I was a man. 

So I could have some ease — 
I 'd crack my whip and whistle loud, 

And do just as I please. 

The boy who speaks the above should come on the stage with 9 whip in his 
hand, and a jaimtv-iooking cap on his head. 

IT 



194 DECLAMATIONS. 



ANOTHER SPEECH FOR A SMALL BOY. 

I am a very little boy, 

As yon can plainly see. 
And as I stand before yon now 

I tremble in each knee. 

But then I thought it would not do 

For all the boys in school 
To make a speech, and leave me out, 

Like a poor, simple fool. 

And so I plucked my courage up, 

Determined to be bold, 
And have come out upon the stage 

To do as I am told. 

I thank the ladies very much 
For listening to my speech ; 

And, if they ask me, I am sure 
I '11 &iye a kiss to each. 



A SCHOOL-BOY'S TROUBLES. 

Good people, listen to my speech, 

And I will tell you true, 
The troubles of a poor school-boy, 

And they are not a few. 

He has to be on guard each day, 

As much as any picket ; 
For if by chance he breaks a rule, 

He 's sure to lose his ticket. 

At home he 's always in the way, 

The family all kick him ; 
And when a lesson he recites, 

Some girl is sure to beat him. 

Nobody ever seems to think 
The school-boy has a heart ; 

Nobody cares if to his eyes 
The childish tears do start. 



SPEECHES FOR LITTLE CHILDREN. 195 

He is too young to be a man, 

Too old to be a pet ; 
And as lie plods his weary way, 

Xo comfort does lie get. 
And so. between the kicks and cutis 

At home and then at school. 
No" wonder half the people think 

The school-bov is a fool. 



SPEECH FOR A BOY TEX OR TWELVE YEARS OLD. 

I did not want to speak to-night. 

But could not have my way ; 
And now I've come before you all. 

I do n't know what to say. 
I am so scared, yon all can see, 

That I can hardly talk; 
So none of you need be surprised 

If I do make a balk. 
You don't know how a fellow feels, 

Who is about my age, 
When he gets up to make a speech 

The first time on the stage. 
His face turns white and red by turns — 

He shakes from arm to heel ; 
And if a lady looks at him, 

His head begins to reel. 
I hope the effort I have made 

This audience will admire, 
And while you wish to criticise 

Permit me to retire. 



SPEECH FOR CHILD SEVEN OR EIGHT YEARS OLD. 

You all may think, because I am 

So very small and young. 
That I in afraid to stand up here 

And use my little tongue. 



196 DECLAMATIONS. 



I '11 let you know, in double-quick, 

That I 've not learned my books 
For ten long months, to now be scared 
By all these people's looks. 

It would be very strange indeed. 

That chaps born in this State 
Should put their fingers in their mouths 

And show a dastard trait. 

Our fathers were as brave a band 

As ever lived, we know ; 
And we are "chips from the old block," 
From head down to the toe. 

The child, in the last two lines, must suit the action to the word. Too much 
pains can not be taken in drilling for an exhibition. 



SPEECH FOR A YOUNG GIRL. 

If there 's a thing that puzzles me. 

In all this wide creation. 
It is the trouble people have 

To get an education. 

First, all the letters you must learn. 

And then hard words to spell ; 
Then weeks and weeks of work to do 

To learn to read right well. 

Then comes the art of writing next — 
Straight lines, and then "pot-hooks;" 

And then a girl must turn from these 
To piles of awful books. 

There ? s grammar, with its hateful words 

And all its horrid tenses ; 
It is enough to drive one mad. 

And make her lose her senses. 

Geography must then be searched 

Before we know the reason 
Why, as the earth turns round and round, 

We have each yearly season. 



SPEECHES FOR LITTLE CHILDREN. 197 

Then history comes upon the list. 

To make us understand 
The constitution and the laws 

That govern every land. 
And then all have to learn that thing 

They call aritJimetic ; 
In trying to do a single sum 

I sometimes get quite sick. 
Then comes a string of other things, 

Too tedious here to mention; 
But if I live I Tl study all— 

At least that \s my intention. 

So, "take it all hi all." I think 

It does require great pains 
To cram these studies all complete 

In one small lot of brains. 



SPEECH FOR A SMALL BOY. 

I 'd rather take a whipping now 
Than stand up here and make a bow, 
And speak before a crowd like this; 
For much I fear you all may hiss. 
But then I thought that Henry Clay 
Had been a boy once in his day. 
And Daniel Webster had to crawl 
Before he ever walked at all. 
'•Large oaks from little aeorns grow, 1 
And. though I creep along quite slow, 
Who knows, but at some future day. 
/ 'II be as great a man as Clav. 



SPEECH FOR A LITTLE BOY AND GIRL ABOU 
THE SAME AGE. 

Girl speaks first. 

There was a little maid and she had a little bonnet. 
And she had a little finger, with a little ring upon it : 



198 DECLAMATIONS. 



She squeezed her little waist to such a little size 

That it made the little blood rush to her little eyes. 

This pretty little maid had a pretty little beau, 

And he wore a little hat, and gloves as white as snow ; 

He said his little heart was in a little flutter, 

That he loved this little maid like little boys love butter. 

A little while, alas ! and her little beau departed, 

With all his little vows, and left her broken-hearted. 

Xow, all you little maids, a moral I will give you, 

Don't trust to little men, they surely will deceive you. 

Boy speaks. 

There was a little fellow and he had a little coat, 
And he had a little beard, just like a little goat. 
This handsome little fellow did love a little lass ; 
He loved this little lady like little calves love grass. 
But, ah ! this little lassie did fool her little beau — 
When he asked her if she 'cl marry she worked her fingers so. 
[Puts his thwrib on Ms nose and works Ms 

fingers. Points with the other hand to the 

male audience.'] 
Now, all you little men, mind what I say to you, 
Do n't court these little maids, they '11 fool you if you do. 

They enter the stage together. In speaking, both suit the action to the word. 



SPEECH FOR A GIRL TEN OR TWELVE YEARS OLD. 

I am a gay and merry child, 

And love to dance and play ; 
I think that pleasure ought to be 

The order of the day. 

I wish I was the President 

Of these United States ; 
I'd veto all the school-rooms, 

And burn the books and slates. 

And then I'd give to all the girls 

Nice dolls and lots of toys ; 
I'd buy all sorts of whips and things 

And give the little boys. 



SPEECHES FOR LITTLE CHILDREN. 199 

If the great men of our day, 

Who now cut such a "swell," 
Had never gone a day to school, 

And learned their lessons well, 
There never would perhaps have been 

This cry of "dissolution," 
And all the people going mad 

About the constitution ! 
The moral of my speech is this, 

That men who 've been to schools 
Sometimes, with all their pile of sense. 

Turn out the greatest fools ! 



THE PRICE OF GOLD. 

The times are very tight, we know, 

And every day grow tighter, 
And pap complains, when bills come in, 

His purse is growing lighter. 
If a new coat I want to buy, 

Invariably I 'm told 
To do without, as there is now 

A large per cent on gold ! 

And if I want a pair of shoes 

To keep out mud and cold, 
I'm told to make the old ones do 

Till there's a fall in gold! 
My gloves are nearly both worn out, 

Together they won't hold ; 
But I must wear them, rags and all, 

While premium 's high on gold, ! 
I asked my ma for a new hat — 

Law. how her eyes she rolled ! 
"Why, child, "tshe said, "have you forgot 

The awful price of goldV 
It is enough to fret a saint — 

My temper I cant hold; 
I'm tempted sometimes to run off 

Till there 's a fall in gold ! 



200 DECLAMATIONS. 



SPEECH FOR A VERY SMALL BOY. 

A very little boy am I, 

And yet to speak I mean to try ; 
Because I know a thing or two, 
As small as I appear to you. 
I know that millers have fat hogs, 
I 've seen them roll about like logs ; 
But where the miller gets his corn 
I never knew since I was born. 
I know that lawyers oft get rich 
When into people's suits they pitch; 
But how they get the money paid 
I never knew since I was made. 
I know that doctors all dress fine, 
Xo matter how their patients pine; 
But how they get so much to spend 
I never knew, you may depend. 
I know the boys all love the girls, 
And talk about their ;; eyes " and " curls : 
But why the girls do n't like a beau 
I never do expect to know. 
I know some lady here will say, 
"That boy's too fast — take him away!" 
This trouble I will save you now 
As thus- I make mv farewell bow. 



SPEECH FOR A VERY SMALL BOY. 

It is a trying thing to me 
To get up here where all can see, 
And make a speech before a crowd, 
For you must know I can't speak loud. 
But then I thought, as Invas dressed, 
I 'd come and do my very best ; 
Some credit you will give me now 
As to the ladies here I bow. 

* Bows. 



SPEECHES FOR LITTLE CHILDREN. 201 



SPEECH FOR A VERY SMALL BOY. 

George Washington was once a boy. 

And had to learn to spell. 
They say lie was Ms father's joy. 

And that he learned right well. 
He never spoke a lie. I'm told. 

Xo matter where he went. 
And by behaving good and bold 

Became our President ! 
Then who can tell but that /may 

Become as great as he? 
And if I do I hope that day 

You all may live to see. 



TURNING THE G-BIXDSTOXE. 

When I was quite a little boy. 

One winter morning cold 
I started off to school, and felt 

All manly, fresh, and bold. 
Just then a man accosted me; 

Said he. " My pretty lad. 
Just look at this nice ax I hold. 

To grind it I'd be glad. 
•Your father's grmdstorie stands quite near. 

Please turn it now for me : 
For surely you 're the nicest boy 

I ever yet did see." 
Pleased with the compliment I said. 
"The grindstone's in the shop. 
And tho" I'm on my way to school. 

For you. kind sir. I'll stop." 
The man replied. " How old are you ? 

For I am very sure 
A finer fellow than you are 

I never saw before." 
I listened to his wily words, 

And. like a simple fool. 



202 DECLAMATIONS. 



I turned and turned the grindstone for 
The man to grind the tool. 

I toiled and tugged and purled and blowed- 

The ax, you see, was new ; 
At last 't was ground, and bitterly 

Did I my folly rue ! 

I thought the man would maybe give 

A penny for my work ; 
Instead of that he* started on , 

And scowled just like a Turk ! 

'You little rascal!" then he said, 
"You have the truant played; 
Be off, or else you "11 rue the hour 
That you from school have strayed I" 

Alas ! I thought *t was bad enough 

The grindstone thus to turn, 
But to be called a rascal, too, 

"With anger made me burn. 

Since I've grown older, when I see 

A merchant very kind 
To customers, I always think 

He,has an ax to grind. 

Or when I hear a lawyer's voice 

To blarney much inclined, 
I 'm sure to think his client finds 

He has an ax to grind. 

And when I see a preacher bow 

And humbly speak his mind, 
I fear his flock will soon find out 

He has an ax to grind. 

Or if I hear a gambler say, 
"Here, boys, I go it blind!" 
I know full well he has an ax, 
The dullest sort, to grind. 

The moral of my speech is this, 
That those who seem most kind 

Are often just the folks who have 
A new dull ax to mud. 



THE IRON SHROUD. 203 



THE IROX SHROUD. 

I "11 tell you now a horrid tale 

I read long months ago 
About a man who was confined 

By one who was his foe. 

The room in which this wretch was placed 

Was built of iron strong. 
And in it seven windows stood. 

All narrow, high, and long. 

But as the captive watched each day, 

He noticed, with great fear, 
That almost imperceptibly 

The wall did disappear ; 

And as the days and hours passed, 

He anxiously did wait 
To solve the dreadful truth that hung 

So darkly o'er his fate! 

Years passed along, but as they went 

The room still smaller grew ; 
And often tears of anguish did 

The prisoner's eyes bedew. 

He saw the windows, one by one, 

Vanish by slow degrees ; 
And as the fearful wall grew close. 

It made his heart's blood freeze ! 

But so it was. and the last ray 

Of light and hope was gone, 
And silently the wretched man 

Awaited death forlorn I 

It came at last, and with a shriek, 

So long, so clear, so loud. 
The captive yielded his last breath 

Within the Iron Shroud. 



204 DECLAMATIONS. 



AN OLD TRADITION IN A NEW GARB.* 

One Summer eve young Cupid hied 
To roam the shady woodland side. 

To pass the time in merry play, 
And gather flowers fresh and gay ; 
With wings of gold and purple hue, 
And quiver full of arrows too, 
Suspended by a ribbon blue. 
Across the shoulder lightly swung, 
To which a supple bow was hung. 
And thus equipped he moved along, 
Singing a soft melodious song; 
With diamond eyes and blooming face, 
And dimpled cheek and childish grace ; 
A polished forehead, golden hair. 
Whose glossy ringlets kissed the air ; 
With rosy, pouting, parting lips. 
The nectar from the violet sips ; 
And then his playful fancy tries 
In chasing pretty butterflies. 

While thus amused, he spied Lord Orville Grey 

Wending his pensive steps across the way ; 

With haggard look and many a deep-drawn sigh 

He caught the laughing boy's mischievous eye. 

"You little rogue,"' he said, and caught him by the arm, 

''Your silly pranks have rendered me much harm/' 

"What have J done?" His lordship quick replies, 

"You 've pierced my heart through Clare's bewitching eyes. 

Now know, proud boy, revenge is just and sweet, 

And you shall pay for that malicious feat." 

"O, let me go," the impatient urchin cried, 

"And Lady Clare shall be your happy bride. 

I swear, by Venus and the gods above, 

She shall return your pure and ardent love ; 

Attend to-morrow Lady Melton's fete 

And I '11 be there the conquest to complete." 



,f Published many year? ago without the knowledge cr consent of the author. 



AN OLD TRADITION IN A NEW GARB. 205 

Wrapped in rich crimson robes of naming light. 
The sun retired beneath the horizon: 
The soft air breathed his parting orison ; 
Then slowly came the somber shades of night, 

A soft retreat young Cupid found 

Within a rural, grassy glen. 

Far from the busy haunts of men : 
Throwing his quiver careless on the ground. 
Was soon reposed in slumber most profound. 
While thus unconscious the unconscious beauty lay. 
Old grim and ghastly Death beset his way. 
Seeking, with hollow eyes and dismal moans, 
A place to rest his weary, aching bones. 

In that warm, sultry clime. 
A fatal fever raged. 

Which kept him all the time 
Quite busily engaged 
Stalking abroad, all day compelled to roam. 
To summon mortals to their long, last home ! 

On this momentous night 

He wished a short respite : 
For well he knew, before the break of day. 
Old Rowland must the debt of Nature pay: 
From Jupiter the awful mandate came. 
Which, if neglected, Death must bear the blame. 

Scattering his arrows all about, 

He stretched his fleshless carcass out. 

With a cold, heartless shiver ; 
He woke, and found no time to waste — 
Gathered them up in breathless haste 

And put them in his quiver, 
His orders to obey: selected thence a pointed dart, 
Shot old Rowland thro' the heart, 

And strode his weary way. 
Cupid arose with the morning air, 
Laved his brow in the dewy air ; 
His firrows were all in confusion tost, 
He counted and found that none were lost, 
And carefully put them all away 
In view of his pledge to Orville Grey. 
When night came on with a smiling face 
He bent his steps to the Melton place. 



206 DECLAMATIONS. 



Lord Orville Grey was already there, 

And so was the lovely Florence Clare ; 

A blaze of the beautiful graced the hall, 

But the Lady Clare surpassed them all. 

Lord Orville lingered close to her side 

And whispered low, "Will you be my bride?" 

"He speaks of love," thought Cupid; "now's the hour 

To show Lord Grey my soft, seducing power, 

And make my promise sure ! " 
Twang ! went the bow, sped well the fatal dart, 
The life-blood curdles at her very heart ; 
Her cheek turns pale ; she starts, and pants for breath ; 
Then sinks into the icy arms of Death, 

To speak and rise no more ! 
Cupid, amazed, beside the victim crept, 
And wondered how it was, and then he wept 
That youth and so much beauty could not save 
Sweet Florence Clare from an untimely grave ! 
Meantime the angry god had summoned Death, 
To learn why Rowland still preserved his breath. 
Death met the accusation with surprise, 
And to his frowning master thus replies : 
"The deference due your majesty I make, 
But must affirm it 's all a great mistake ; 
I pierced old Rowland with my keenest dart 
Right thro' the center of his sordid heart, 
And can't imagine how the stroke he parried. 
Not dead ? You joke ! " "Why, no ! the coon is married. 
Instead of taking his detested life 

You've blessed him with a young and handsome wife! " 
Death scratched his skull and said he knew not why 
He could not make the tough old villain die ; 
That he had taken many in his life, 
But never tendered any man a wife ; 
And much he feared, could the whole truth be known, 
Young Ciqyid^s arrows mingled with his own 

On tli at dark, fatal night ! 
And what about the blamed affair he hated 
Both formed to conquer human hearts, 
So much alike the plaguey darts 
Could not be separated, 

And never icould ue right ! 



TRUE GREATNESS TRUTH DIVINE. 207 

Cupid and Death each other's weapons carry, 
And thus we see the reason why, 
As long as this wide world shall stand, 
In every clime, in every land, 

The young and "beautiful must die 
And foolish old men marry ! 



TRUE GREATNESS. 

Some call that great which wealth can claim, 

Some predicate it of a name, 

And others deem it worldly fame ; 

While some by pomp, and power, and show, 

Would let the world their greatness know. 

While through this life we take our course, 

Such greatness may be turned to use, 

To aid us in the higher aims 

Which the immortal spirit claims ; 

Such greatness natural pleasure brings, 

Merely confined to natural things. 

True greatness, not to these confined, 

In magnanimity of mind, 

Declares itself of higher birth 

Than gilded pageantry of earth ! 

We trace its noble origin 

To Him whose greatness is divine— 

Whose glorious greatness is no less 

Than pure essential Holiness. 

He is called great, and conqueror, too, 

Who earthly kingdoms can subdue ; 

But he who can himself control 

Displays true greatness of the soul. 

To make the proper estimate, 

Then, to be good is to be great ! 



TRUTH DIVINE. 

O, truth divine, to mortals given 

To ope the mind to peace and Heaven, 



208 DECLAMATIONS. 



How precious and how dear thou art 
To those who seek a change of heart! 
From worldly love and passion freed 
The Christian feels a bliss indeed. 
When a pure state like this we find, 
We think it strange the human mind 
Can Tain fallacious errors clasp 
With Truth Divine within its grasp. 
O, love of truth, who knows its v orth, 
A gem too pure for this low earth ; 
But if the soul this pearl would find, 
All others must be cast behind. 



TEUTH AND LOVE. 

Bright crystals of truth, O, how divine, 
When midst bright flowrets of love they shine ! 
Bright jewels of virtue rich and rare 
Will always glitter conspicuous there. 

Jewels of virtue seem to be lost 
When innocence yields to Death's cold frost ; 
But truth is innocence, and love never dies — 
In the garland of virtue each ever vies. 



ON MUSIC. 



Music, thy varying and harmonious power 
Adapts itself to every mood and hour ; 
Thy full-drawm chords devotion can impart, 
And elevate the Christian's drooping heart, 
Above this sphere of sense and time, 
To the celestial spirit clime ; 
And when in unison with those who weep, 
Then pity moves the string with pathos deep. 

But, Music, thou canst merry be, 

And change thine air to suit thy company; 



CLOSING SONG. 209 



In quickstep cheerful, brisk, and loud. 
Canst animate the reveling crowd. 
Or on the sanguine battle-plain 
Exhilarate with martial strain. 
When rattling drums and clarion clear 
Invigorate the soldier's ear ; 
Or thou canst with a pastoral lay 
While the dull shepherd's time away. 

And. Music, thou dost condescend 
To be the smiling infant's friend ; 
Deigning thy soothing power to try 
In the sweet, simple lullaby. 

But most bewitching thou canst prove. 
Should unsophisticated love 
Breathe softly on the magic lyre, 
Responding to some angel choir, 
Whose highest notes can only swell 
The melting power of Love to tell. 



CLOSING SONG. 

Tu^e—^ JvM Before the Battle, Mother."' 

We now come forth to thank yon freely 

For your interest so kind, 
And to tell you that we '11 ever 
Such attention bear in mind. 

Chorus — Farewell, then, for we may never 
Together meet on earth again ; 
? Tis painful thus for us to sever. 
And the parting gives us pain. 

For our teachers we will cherish 

Love and friendship while we live, 
And for the care of us they 've taken 
Warmest thanks to them we give. 

Chorus — Farewell, then, for we may never 

Together meet on earth again ; 

'Tis painful thus for us to sever, 

And the parting gives us pain. 



210 DECLAMATIONS 



Farewell, classmates, we may never 

Meet again together here ; 
But our school association 
To each other will he dear. 

Chorus — Farewell, then, for we may never 

Together meet on earth again ; 

'Tis painful thus for us to sever, 

And the parting gives us pain. 



THREE LITTLE GRAVES. 

'T was Autumn, and the leaves were dry 

And rustled on the ground, 
And chilly winds came whistling by 

With low and pensive sound, 
As through the graveyard's lone retreat, 

By meditation led, 
I valked, with slow and cautious feet, 

Above the sleeping dead. 
Three little graves ranged side by side 

My close attention drew ; 
O'er two the tall grass bending wide, 

And one seemed fresh and new. 
As lingering there I mused awhile 

On death's long, dreamless sleep, 
And opening life's deceitful smile, 

A mourner came to weep. 
Her form was bowed, but not with years- 

Her words were f aint and few ; 
And o'er those little graves her tears 

Distilled like evening dew. 
A prattling boy, some four years old, 

Her trembling hand embraced ; 
And from my heart the tale he told 

Can never be effaced. 
"Mama, what made sweet sister die? 

She loved me when we played. 
You told me if I would not cry 

You'd show me where she's laid.'' 



THREE LITTLE GRATES. 211 

" 'Tis here, my child, that sister lies 

Deep buried in the ground; 
No light comes to her little eyes, 

And she can hear no sound." 

"Mama, why can't you take her up 

And put her in the bed \ 
I "11 feed her from my little cup — 

And then she won't be dead. 

u For sister '11 be afraid to lie 

In this dark grave to-night; 
And she '11 be very cold, and cry 

Because there is no light." 

" Your sister is not cold, my child, 

For God who saw her die, 
As he looked down from heaven and smiled, 

Recalled her to the sky. 

"And then her spirit quickly fled 

To God, by whom 't was given ; 
Her body in the ground is dead, 

But sister lives in heaven." 

"Mama, won't she be hungry there, 

And want some bread to eat ? 
And who will give her clothes to wear 

Arid keep them clean and neat? 

"Papa must go and take her some — 

I '11 send her all I ' ve got ; 
And he must bring sweet sister home — 

Mama, now must he not \ " 

"No, my dear child, that can not be; 

But if you 're good and true, 
You may one day go up to her — 

She can not come to you. 



ii I 



Let little children come to me,' 
Once our dear Savior said; 
And in His arms she '11 always be, 
And God will give her bread." 



212 DECLAMATIONS 



TRUE DEVOTION. 

The Sabbath morn broke bright and beautiful 

Upon the dew-1 >espangled earth ; 
One lonely heart bowed meekly dutiful 

In prayer to hail its hallowed birth. 
With lifted hands, and eyes unclosed to aught 

Save that which now possessed her soul, 
;; Is there not grace in Heaven?" she inward thought, 

" And power the reckless to control? " 
On that same morn the bright celestial choirs 

Awoke to sympathy and love ; 
In notes of praise attuned their golden lyres 

To Him who rules the heaven above. 
Life, light, and glory from the presence blazed, 

The chant swelled full and loud and high ; 
And cherub faces with sweet rapture gazed 

On Him who made both earth and sky. 
They hist! a tone of pure and fine- wrought feeling 

Vibrated through the blest abode ; 
From earth it came in mournful numbers pealing, 

Up to the very throne of God ! 
With deep and heavenly odors breathing, 

Athwart the glorious conclave swept ; 
A strain of grieving love, and so entreating, 

The happy angels paused and wept. 
A peaceful answer quickly passed, returning 

That which gospel faith and love had won — 
That holy prayer, still on the altar burning, 

The mother s offering for an only son. 



DIVERSITY OF CHARACTER. 

There are hearts in this world so humble and meek 
They would not the praise of the multitude seek, 
But glide through their duties, both peaceful and still, 
Like wild Sowers twining near streamlet or rill, 
Which fancy lone meadows so fertile and green, 
And bloom in ohscuritv — sometimes unseen : 



SUMMER FRUIT. 213 



Disdaining the honor or plaudits of men. 

Content to reside in their own native glen. 

Another would soar on the pinions of Fame, 

And labors intensely to get a great name ; 

A cringing and bowing popular minion 

Who falsities truth for public opinion : 

While others would sacrifice comfort and health. 

And honor and conscience, to accumulate wealth ; 

Plodding early and late, increasing their store — 

Could they gather up all, would want as much more ! 

Some, if they can, think it pleasant enough 

To murder their time in tobacco and sn uff; 

And some with strong liquor their moments consume. 

Although it may lead them to gutter or tomb ! 

Thousands, quite reckless, care not how they live — 

To pleasure and sporting their hours the}' give ; 

rNot reflecting, though happy and cheerful they seem, 

That life is as short as a morning's light dream; 

That existence thus wasted must set in a cloud, 

When the shadows of Death shall their pathway enshroud. 

Let others speak lightly, and think what they will. 

My life I would choose by Virtue's soft rill ; 

Sound reason would whisper, 't is happier, indeed, 

To be like the wild rose that blooms on the mead. 



SODIER FRUIT. 

"Fine Summer fruit; come buy, come buy 
Sweet apples large and round/' 

The market-man was heard to cry, 
As promenading round. 

One selected from the rest, 

And paid the man his j)rice, 
And thought it surely was the best, 

So very plump and nice. 

I put it carefully away 

Within a China jar, 
To keep it for a Winter day. 

When fruit is sometimes rare. 



214 DECLAMATIONS. 



One snowy eve, both dark and cold, 

The rarity in store 
Was cut to eat ; and then behold, 

'T was rotten at the core! 

'Tis thus, I cried, with favor sold, 

And he who pays the fee, 
When he has parted with his gold, 

Will much resemble me. 
We choose our friends by outward show, 

Because they promise well ; 
Their motives we are not to know", 

For who the heart can tell? 

Bought friendship lasts like Summer fruit 

While all is bright and fair; 
Long as the int'rest it may suit, 

And then — no friendship there ! 
When poverty's cold Winter blows ' 

And gloom is spreading round, 
The heart must bear its throbs and woes — 

The friend can not be found. 
Or if perchance he should seem kind 

And feign a friendly part, 
Just push him close, and you will find 

Him hollow in the heart. 



ON SLANDER, 



We mourn the selfish pride which now prevails, 
And on our hapless erring race entails 

Care, misery, and death ; 
And what we all must own, by far, is worse, 
That deadly, heavy, and malignant curse, 

Foul stains of Slander's breath, 
Which often blasts the honest fame 
Of many a true and virtuous name ; 
Which else might live in partial bliss, 
Even in such a heartless world as this ! 
For what to man are golden stores of pelf, 
Or roseate health, or even life itself, 



THE LORD SEES OUR INNERMOST. 



Wlien character is torn ; 

Leaving the hopeless, sad. and stricken heart 
Without a friend, a cast-off, and apart 

In solitude to mourn ? 
Bereft of that most pleasing source 
Of life, sweet, soothing intercourse ; 
And, what is still more hard to bear, 
In this his helpless children have to share ! 
Ye reckless spoilers of a neighbor's weal; 
Ye manger dogs ! too merciless to feel ; 

Too indolent to climb 
Yourselves the mount which leads to fame, 
You look with jealous envy and declaim 

'Gainst him who spends his time 
In active useful enterprise, 
And falsify him hi the eyes 
Of those who would his cause defend, 
And to his wise pursuits assistance lend. 
And when the llaclcisli, fiendish deed is done, 
You smile and smile, and look quite calmly on. 

To you we recommend 
That golden maxim of the Holy Word, 
As taught by Jesus Christ, our only Lord, 

The wretched sinner's friend : 
Unto another always do 
As you would have him do to you ; 
And if you would for mercy pray, 
O, sin, 6, "sin no more, and go thy way/' 



THE LORD SEES OUR INNERMOST. 

A charity deed on the pinions of fame, 
To heaven's high court was borne ; 

It savored of grace, was pretty and fair, 

Came claiming a place in a casket there, 
Of jewels reserved to be worn 

By those whom the Savior would name. 

Through the ordeal of earth it new with eclat 
The donor was raised to the skies ; 



2 1 6 I) EC LA MAT I O N S . 



But the external mold, tho' sparkling and bright, 
Its value ne'er told to the angels of light, 

Who, looking with deep-searching eyes, 
Its innermost particles saw. 
The action apparently noble and kind 

Was tarnished by motives impure ; 
Though lauded by man, thro' the clear gospel glass 
Where angels may ken, it never would pass ; 

No rest in their kingdom so pure 
Could act without goodness e'er find. 



THE BOY AND THE BAKER. 

Once, when monopoly had made 

As bad as now the eating trade, 

A boy went to a baker's shop. 

His gnawing appetite to stop; 

A loaf for twopence there demanded, 

And down a tiny loaf was handed. 

The boy surveyed it round and round, 

With many a shrug and look profound ; 

At length— "Why, master, 7 ' said the wight, 

'•This loaf is very, very light!" 

The baker, his complaint to parry, 

Replied, with look most archly dry. 

While quick conceit sat squinting in his eye — 
'-Light, boy? Then you 've the less to carry.'" 
The boy grinned plaudits to his joke, 

And on the counter laid down rhino, 
With mien, that plainly all but spoke — 

"With you I'll soon be even, I know." 
Then took his loaf, and went his way ; 

But soon the baker bawl'd him back — 

"You've laid down but three halfpence, Jack! 

And twopence was the loaf's amount. 
How's this, you cheating rascal, eh?" 

"Sir," says the boy, "you 've the less to count • /" 

Charles Dibdin, jr. 



MAY-QUEEN CELEBRATION. 217 



MAY-QUEEN CELEBRATION. 



SPEECH OF THE CKOWNER. 

Lovely, charming Queen of May, 

O, may thy path through life's short day 

Be strewed with flowers fresh and gay, 

To charm thee. 
Still may thy face in smiles be drest, 
And no rude foe thy peace molest, 
Nor evil passion cross thy breast 

To harm thee. 
May time mature thy buoyant mind, 
And all affections good and kind 
A place in thy young bosom find 

To bless thee. 
May no dark cloud on thee descend, 
Nor sorrows deep thy heart-strings rend, 
Nor lover false, or faithless friend 

Distress thee. 

May peace attend thee day and night, 
And every blessing good and bright, 
And angels of the realms of light, 

Surround thee. 
O, may thy sun in smiles decline, 
And all thy blessings be divine, 
And wreaths of glory round thee shine, 

To crown thee. 
[Or.] 
When thou shalt to the tomb descend 
May heaven's Sovereign be thy friend, 
And guardian angels still attend 

Around thee. 
And when from earth thy spirit flies, 
O, may you, with the good and wise, 
Immortal life find in the skies, 

To crown thee ! 
19 



118 MAY-QUEEN CELEBRATION- 



SrEECII OF THE SCEPTER-BEARER. 

O, Queen of the prettiest month in the year, 

We willingly bow to thy sway ! 
And crown thee, sweet fair one, triumphantly here, 

The monarch of this happy day. 

We choose thee because thou art virtuous and fair, 

Nor yet for thy personal grace; 
The charms which embellish thy temper and mind 

More rare than a beautiful face. 

Thy subjects are happy, the breezes impart 

A fragrance through flowerets gay ; 
Peace to thy reign, and health to thy heart, 

Dear Queen of this pretty bright May. 

The scepter then take, and, fair Queen, we will bow 

In loyalty true to thy sway ; 
And crown thee, sweet fair one, triumphantly here, 

The monarch of this happy day. 

SPEECH OF SPRING. 

Thy faithful subject now, sweet Queen, 

An offering doth bring ; 
Fresh flowers, with their leaves of green, 

Low at thy feet I fling. 

O, may thy life be free from care, 
And like these flowers be gay; 

May sorrow ne'er shade brow so fair 
As thine appears to-day. 

The gift I humbly bring to thee 

Is one of love, I ween, 
Accept it, then, this day of glee, 

Our chosen beauteous Queen. 

SPEECH OF SUMMER. 

I come, fair Queen, with golden wheat, 
This clay your royalty to greet ; 
And though my gift is not as gay 
As that of Spring, to gild your way, 



MAY-QUEEN CELEBRATION. 219 

Still you must own that Summer's face 
In your young bosom holds a place. 
You love the warmth my sunshine yields; 
You love my rich, full grain in fields ; 
You love my sky, so blue and fair; 
You love my beauties every- where ; 
Then please accept, from subject true, 
The simple gift I bring to you. 

SPEECH OF AUTUMN. 

My sisters, Summer and young Spring, 
To you their wheat and flowers bring; 
But I bear ripe and luscious fruit — 
Your royal taste I hope to suit. 
I wear a sober mien, I own, 
As now I stand before your throne; 
But I have beauties, you 11 agree, 
That all who know me ever see. 
My mellow light and hazy sky 
Both have attraction for the eye; 
And many love the mournful breeze 
I send among the fading trees. 
Then let me hope in your kind heart 
That Autumn holds a loving part. 

SPEECH OF WINTER. 

This simple wreath I bring to thee, 
From gay and brilliant colors free ; 
Of lasting green this wreath is made, 
So may your virtues never fade ; 
But bloom on earth while life is given, 
And, ever green, bloom fresh in heaven ! 

SONG OF THE FLORAS. 

With faces bright 
And bosoms light 

We crown the Queen of May. 
Fresh flowers we bring. 
Emblems of Spring, 

To strew along her way. 



220 MAY-QUEEN CELEBRATION. 

Let us be gay 
This happy day, 

The present we'll enjoy; 
We '11 laugh at care, 
And have no fear 

Our pleasure to alloy. 

Youth is the time, 
In this free clime, 

To carol forth our lay ; 
And as we sing, 
Sweet flowers we bring, 

To crown our Queen of May. 

SPEECH OF FASHION. 

My name is Fashion, and all bow 

To my imperious shrine ; 
I'll rule the world long as the sun 

And moon and stars doth shine. 

The rich and poor all follow me 

Where 'er I go or move; 
No matter what my freaks impose, 

They all my power lore. 

'T is Fashion rules the minds of men 
Of every clime and nation ; 

'T was Fashion that invented first 
A May-queen celebration. 

To you, sweet Queen, then Fashion brings 

A necklace rich and rare, 
To clasp with her devotion true 

Around your neck so fair. 

Accept this token of her love, 

And in this hour of glee, 
O, may you reign a happy Queen, 

Is Fashion's prayer for thee. 

SPEECH OF FOLLY. 

I am a merry, willful lass, 

As gayly through the world I pass ; 



MAY-QUEEN CELEBRATION. 



My sister, Fashion, I will oath. 
Has worshipers about her throne; 
But, though to her they bend the knee, 

As many turn to follow me; 

For Fashion's power soon would fade 
Without her sister Folly's aid ; 
And so together, hand in hand, 
We travel over every land. 
The gift I lay before thy throne 
Is quite a silly one. I own : 
'T is one of Fashion's modern tools 
To turn the head of female fools. 



SPEECH OF CUPID. 

My name is Cupid, and all know 
I bear a quiver and a bow; 
I travel over all the earth. 
'Mid scenes of gladness and of mirth. 
Tho 1 I am small, yet I am bold — ■ 
I strike the hearts of young and old ; 
I Tl wait till you are seventeen, 
And then, my lovely little Queen, 
I '11 send a sharp and pointed dart 
Straight to the center of your heart. 

[Shoots an arrow at the Queen's feet.] 

SPEECH OF FAITH. 

I come with my sisters fair to see — 
Sweet Hope and gentle Charity; 
TTe three united can impart- 
True happiness to every heart. 
This Book contains the words of truth, 
To guide the wayward steps of youth; 
The Cross also I bear, to show 
Where we must look for strength below. 
If you upon them both will lean. 
A crown you '11 wear in heaven, fair Queen, 
A place you 11 gain 'mid hosts above, 
Where naught is heard but truth and love. 



M A Y-Q U E E N C E L E 1 5 R ATION. 



SPEECH OF HOPE. 

Pandora's box is one of which 

We all have heard, fair Queen ; 
In it was sealed up every woe 

That in this world is seen. 
A woman's curiosity 

Revealed all it contained; 
She raised the lid, out trouble new, 

And Hope alone remained ! 

So since that day, whene'er the heart 

Is sad and sick and sore, 
Hope always at the bottom stays, 

With, anchor safe and sure. 
This emblem then I give to thee, 

A beacon to the soul, 
Still upward pointing to the land, 

The Christian's wished-f or goal. 



SPEECH OF CHAPITY. 

O, Charity is a lovely grace, 

In every heart she holds a place ; 

'Tis long-suffering and kind, 

And adds much beauty to the mind. 

I come, I come with my mantle wide, 

The failings of all I love to hide ; 

For Charity never refuses to halt 

To cover a weakness or hide a fault. 

Let Charity's mantle, then, fair Queen, 

About thy throne be ever seen. 



SPEECH OF MUSIC. 

My name is Mu^ic, with my lyre, 
All hearts I often do inspire; 
Music now comes to offer thee 
Her plaintive notes of melody. 



MAY-QUEEN CELEBRATION. 



'Twill give. I trust, a gladsome lay 
To this bright festival of May; 
Then let sweet Music's magic power 
Be felt by all this happy hour. 



SPEECH OF THE MAY QUEEN. 

My dear little subjects, the homage you bring 
Falls soft on my heart like dew-drops in Spring 
Upon the sweet flowers, limpid and pure. 
Refreshing my heart to its innermost core. 

You crown me your Queen, the Queen of sweet May, 
And I for your loyalty nothing can pay 
But the tribute of love, all ardent and true, 
From a bright merry heart now tendered to you. 

The trees are in verdure, the flowers are bright, 
Then may our bosoms be mirthful and light 
As the soft, playful zephyr which comes from afar, 
Or the butterfly gay that sports through the air. 

Should evils come near us to mar this blest day, 
May angels attend us and chase them away ; 
To children, we 're told, such guardians are given, 
'•Of such," said our Lord, "is the kingdom of heaven." 



ANOTHER SPEECH OF THE MAY QUEEN. 



You have crowned me, kind plavmates. "the Queen of the 
May," 

And my heart beats with pride and with joy; 
In return I have nothing to give you all 

But a love that is without alloy. 

To the classmate who crowns me. O. here let me say, 

You hold a dear place in my heart ; 
The playmate who tenders the scepter I hold 

Also in my love bears a part. 



22-i MAY-QUEEN CELEBRATION. 

To the beautiful Spring let me now give my thanks 

For the garlands of flowers so fair ; 
And to Summer, for all the rich grain she has brought, 

My gratitude now I declare. 

To Autumn, I thank her for fruit that I love, 

Her gift it is grateful and kind ; 
And to Winter, the wreath she so lovingly brings, 

Holds a very dear place in my mind. 

And now, to my schoolmates around me so dear, 

My thanks to you all I avow ; 
And I never expect to enjoy while I live 

A moment more happy than now. 

And when I grow old, and think of the past, 

I will often recall this glad day, 
When, with hearts beating light,, my playmates in glee 

Did crown me the Queen of sweet May. 



ANOTHER SPEECH OF THE MAY QUEEN. 

Beloved companions of my juvenile days, 
I bring the tribute of a grateful mind ; 

Accept my ardent song of love and praise 
For friendship so congenial and refined. 

You wish me blessings that might well attend 
Some happier being in the climes above, 

Where no false lover or unfaithful friend 
Can dash with grief the cup of perfect love ! 

Now we are happy, but the time may come 
When fate shall sever bosoms thus entwined, 

And you or I may find some distant home, 

Where friends are few and strangers seem unkind. 

Then, should I go, my thoughts will linger here, 
Wliile fancy paints this well-remembered day ; 

To my fond heart you ever will be dear, 
Tho 1 I should wander far, O, far away ! 



MAY-QUEEN CELEBRATION. 



Nor can I hope, while in this clime below, 

To claim the bliss your fervent prayers would grant ; 
Where every flowery path thro' which we go 

Is checked with sorrow keen, or care, or want. 

Then please accept my song of love and praise, 
And oft, when I recall this gladsome clay, 

I '11 think of my companions young and fair 

With fondest love, who crowned me Queen of May. 



SOXG. 
Air— ''-Many long weary hours I've been waiting.'''* 

The sweet Spring is blooming, 
With flowers fresh and gay, 

And we *ve met together blithely 
To crown our Queen of May. 

Will Ave ever meet again 
To carol forth our lay ; 

Will we ever meet again 

To crown the Queen of May. 

2s"o cloud of sorrow darkens 
Our bosoms light and free, 
And we hail this joyous meeting 

With hearts of youthful glee. 

Will we ever meet again 
To carol forth our lay ; 

Will we ever meet again 
To crown the Queen of May. 

0, long will we remember 

This Spring day so serene, 
When merrily together 

We met to crown our Queen. 

Will we ever meet again 
To carol forth our lay ; 

Will we ever meet again 
To crown the Queen of May 



MAY-QUEEN CELEBRATION. 



MAY-QUEEN SONG. 

Am— "The Old Tin Horn" 

O. long we Tl remember this joyous night, 

When happy together so free and so light, 
We tendered bright garlands of flowers gay 
To our young and fair Queen of sweet May. 
O, the Queen of sweet May, 
The Queen of sweet May, 
Our young and fair Queen of sweet May ; 
O, the Queen of sweet May, 
The Queen of sweet May, 
Our young and fair Queen of sweet May. 

Let us laugh at dull care while merrily w T e sing, 
And happy together we welcome the Spring ; 
Let our voices be cheerful, our feelings be gay, 
As we crown our fair Queen of sweet May. 
0, the Queen of sweet May, etc. 

0, long may she reign in a realm of delight, 
While happily she governs her subjects aright; 
With hearts of devotion our homage we pay 
To our young and fair Queen of sweet May. 
O, the Queen of sweet May, etc. 

SONG FOU FANNIE, QUEEN OF MAY. 
km,— 'Annie of the Yale." 

The young flowers are glowing, 
With beauty o'erilowing, 
Their -radiance crowns our fair young Queen of May; 
She conies like a fairy, 
So blithesome and airy, 
To reign the monarch of this happy day. 

Come, come, playmates, come, 
Come ere the bright roses pale ; 
O, bring her sweet flowers, 
Just fresh from the bowers, 
And crown Queen Fannie of the vale. 



MAY-QUEEN CELEBRATION. 



? Tis not for her beauty, 
This marvel of duty, 
We crown her with flowers so gay; 
But for the sweet spirit 
Which she doth inherit, 
We crown her the Queen of sweet May. 

Come, come, playmates, come, 
Come ere the bright roses pale ; 
O, bring her sweet flowers, 
Just fresh from the bowers, 
And crown Queen Fannie of the rale. 

Note. — Any name of two syllables can be substituted for Fannie. 



COSTUMES. 

Queen or May. Dress of white, light material, trimmed 
according to the taste of the teacher. A white tulle dress over 
a white silk petticoat; a berthe of tulle, lace, and ribbon; a 
broad white sash would be appropriate. The dresses of the 
Crowxer and Scepter-beaker should be made of light ma- 
terial ; and the effect would be prettier if they are girls of the 
same height, size, and complexion, dressed alike. This is not 
necessary. A May Queen dressed in any thing but white is 
in bad taste. 

Spring. Dress of white, looped over an embroidered petti- 
coat, with bunches of small flowers; a wreath of flowers on 
the hair; a basket of choice flowers in one hand and a garl.md 
in the other. 

Summer. Dress of light blue over a trimmed skirt; a 
wreath of flowers on her head; in one hand a sheaf of grain, 
in the other a sickle. 

Autumn. Dress of white, trimmed with leaves of green 
and brown ; a wreath of green and brown leaves around her 
head; in one hand a basket of fruit, in the other a bunch of 
grapes. 

Winter. Dress of white, trimmed solely with evergreens. 
The effect is beautiful if the dress is of light material, and 
frosted with isinglass or mica. This is easily done by damp- 
ening with gum-arabic solution the tarlatan and sprinkling it 
with mica. 



228 MAY-QUEEN CELEBRATION. 

Fashion. Dress in the extreme of fashion. 

Folly. Dress of any bright color, and trimmed in the 
most ridiculous manner, with ribbons of all shades, flowers, 
tinsel, etc. 

Cupid. All know this dress. 

Music. The dress in this character can be varied to suit 
the taste of the young girl who acts it. The skirt covered 
with sheet music would look pretty. A guitar in the hand, 
or some other small musical instrument. 

NOTE. — Folly presents the Queen with some article that is (at the time of 
the celebration) in vogue. There is seldom a time when some ridiculous 
fashion is not prevalent among the ladies of this age. 



AMERICAN ORATORY. 



AKDKEW JACKSON. 



General Jackson imparted a high and lofty sense of honor 
and noble and gallant chivalry throughout his whole army. 
Previous to the 8th of January, whenever our artillery had 
silenced that of the enemy, or forced his troops to retire, 
loud and repeated huzzas rent the whole line. The most 
lively demonstrations of joy were every-where exhibited. 
It was a sure presage of the fate of the enemy in the general 
conflict. How different was the conduct of those brave and 
generous and gallant men after the ever-memorable battle 
of the 8th of January was won. The roar of artillery and 
musketry gave place to the most profound silence. Flushed 
with victory, having just repulsed an enemy who had come 
to scatter death in our ranks, our soldiers saw in the numer- 
ous corpses that strewed the plain only the unfortunate 
victims of war. * * * - * They disdained to insult 
them by an untimely exultation, and carefully abstained 
from any demonstrations of joy. * * * * * - - 
Such were General Jackson and his army ! Gallant spirit ! 
His applause should have been written across the blue 
arch of heaven, in the brightest rays of the most beau- 
teous rainbow. He stands the living wonder of the age. 
Years have only increased his devotion to liberty. His ex- 
ample, like the sun, is full of light and glory. In after 
ages, when our children's children shall read the stories of 
heroes who have greatly dared in defense of their country ; 
when their eyes shall glisten, and their young hearts throb 
wildly with the kindling theme, they will close the volume 
that speaks of their valor and renown, and proudly and 
fondly exclaim, "And ice too had our Andrew Jackson." 

Dawsok. 

(259) 



230 AMERICAN ORATORY. 



ONE GREEN SPOT IN THE LIFE OF JACKSON. 

Mr. Botts, the gentleman from Virginia, tells us that he 
has been enabled to discover but one green spot in the life 
of General Jackson, and that was his submission to the de- 
cision of Judge Hall, in the imposition of this fine. Sir, 
but one green spot in the life of Andrew Jackson! I go 
back to his boyhood. When he was a British prisoner 
during the revolutionary war, he was insolently ordered by 
a British officer to "black his boots." Did Andrew Jack- 
son obey this order with the servile acquiescence common 
to his years and situation ? No, sir ! He positively refused 
to obey, claimed the treatment due to a prisoner of war, 
and although an only brother was sacrificed and fell by his 
side from the cruelty of his oppressor, Andrew Jackson 
could not be driven from his position, or forced to submit 
to the arrogance of his tyrant. Was this no green syoi in 
the life of Andrew Jackson ? I come down to the history of 
the last war. What was the condition of your country 
then? The cities upon your coast had been sacked, your 
country overrun, and a hostile flag waved in proud triumph 
from the walls of this Capitol. Go to the West, The tide 
of victory had spread over the upper valley of the Missis- 
sippi; your "stripes and stars" trailed in the dust; your 
national glory lost. The massacre of the River Raisin 
and the defeat of Dudley hung heavily upon every mind. 
Kentucky mourned the loss of her bravest sons, whose 
bones, denied the right of sepulture, were then whiten- 
ing upon the battle-field of disaster. Andrew Jackson 
was appointed to the command of the American army, 
The effect was like magic ! Hope revived, patriotism re- 
kindled, confidence was restored. Our stars and stripes 
again floated in the breeze, the current of disaster was 
checked, the wave of victory rolled back, and battle after 
battle won in quick succession, until the war was ended in 
the blaze of glory at New Orleans. Was there no green spot 
in the life of Andrew Jackson resulting from all this? Sir, 
it will require no storied urn to commemorate the deeds of 
that illustrious man. They are recorded upon every page 
of his country's history. Nor will it require monumental 
columns to mark the spot in which his ashes will be depos- 
ited. The laurel will continue to bloom upon his grave, 



DISCORDANT ELEMENTS OF LEGISLATION. 231 

bedewed by the tears of a grateful nation, when the deeds 
and the graves of those wild revile him will be forgotten 
and buried beneath the rubbish of oblivion. Payste. 



THE DANGER OF DISCORDANT ELEMENTS OF 
LEGISLATION. 

We are now on the very throe and travail of agitation. 
Omens of evil hang thick and dark along the horizon of 
the future ! No star of hope aiises ! No ray of deliverance 
gleams out to gladden the heart of the nation ! Our present 
is full of trouble — our future replete with doubt only less 
than despair. *- * * * * As well might you attempt 
to blot out the sun and bind the solar system with col) webs, 
as to waste your strength in the insane endeavor to hold the 
discordant elements of this confederacy in a state of adhe- 
sion while this vexing and disorganizing question is per- 
mitted to infest the halls of legislation. But if we bury 
this dangerous issue, and set our hearts upon the aggran- 
dizement of the country, there may be no bound to the 
sacred munificence of our preservation. The coming trials 
and tribulations of earth may but augment our glory. Pre- 
served amidst the "thunderings and lightnings " which 
appall the tribes and races of earth, we may yet be led up 
like the prophet to the mount, to see the face of the Eternal 
Lawgiver; and when the visitation has passed, the world 
may see us descending from the mountain and the cloud, 
our brow blazing, and our hands holding the Command- 
ments of Mankind; and if, as there is great reason to sup- 
pose, the terms of metaphor employed in the Scripture to 
represent the destruction of the globe are only material 
emblems of the spiritual up-breaking and subsequent reno- 
vation of the race, then our government may stand forever. 
The cause of humanity bids it stand. The success of our 
great experiment of self-government bids it stand. "The 
very earth itself, 1 ' as it whirls along its orbit, "carries the 
universal shout around esto perpetua;" and from the most 
distant realms of the coming future returns the prolonged 
and repeated echo, "he thou everlasting." 



AMERICAN ORATORY. 



ENERGY THE GUARANTEE OF GREATNESS. 

k 

It is with nations as it is with individuals. The man 
who lias energy holds the guarantee to greatness. Exile 
him to the wilderness and he presses milk and honey from 
its rocks. Launch him out on the stormy ocean and he 
exacts a rich revenue from its billows. Place him in a 
printing-office and he becomes a philosopher and a states- 
man. Imprison his body, and through the grated windows 
of his cell he sends out his soul to tread the zodiac and 
count the constellations of heaven. Bring out and spread 
in his pathway the racks and chains of Jewish persecution, 
and, looking forward to the results and rewards of his 
labors, he points to these instruments of torture, and says, 
with serene composure, "None of these things move me.' 1 
Place him in any and all relations, whether prosperous or 
adverse, and still his step is lirm, fearless, forward ; and if 
the framery of the universe fall, its shattered ruins will 
strike him on his way to his object. As with individuals, 
so with nations — energy is the condition and guarantee of 
greatness. Akkrs. 



IMPORTANCE OF CONSISTENCY AND EXERTION. 

Experience has taught me that the strife and turmoil of 
political contention bring no substantial joys, and that, after 
all, true happiness is only to be found in the quiet and 
repose of domestic life. Would to God that my last w T ords, 
like the song of the dying swan, could be my sweetest, and 
that I could be inspired with the ability and the eloquence 
to arouse my gallant comrades, with whom I have for years 
here struggled in vain, to the importance of unyielding con- 
sistency and redoubled exertion. My ambition would be 
fully gratified if, by one word of admonition, I could stim- 
ulate them to a more vigorous resistance to the corrupt and 
evil tendencies of the times. We have been defeated, but 
not conquered; our hearts are as proud and our spirits as 
unsubdued as though we were reposing on our laurels in 
the pride and flush of victory. Then I w r ould appeal to 
them, by all the high and ennobling considerations of virtue 



REVERENCE FOR OUR NATIVE LAND. 233 

and of patriotism, of honor and of fame, to continue to 
"fight the good fight" and to keep the faith. I would ap- 
peal to them, by the precepts of our fathers, to continue 
their efforts for the preservation of our free institutions. 
which were the result of their wisdom and the heritage of 
then* gift. I would appeal to them, in the name of a mu- 
tilated constitution, which, like the blood of Abel, cries 
from the ground for vengeance, to "fight on, fight ever." 
I would appeal to them, by all the associations of our com- 
mon struggles, by our bright hopes which have been 
blighted, and our common sufferings under defeat; by 
these I would appeal to them, in the language of our late 
glorious chieftain, "to shake off the dew-drops that glitter 
on their garments, and march once more to battle, to vic- 
tory, and to glory." Raynor. 



REVERENCE FOR OUR NATIVE LAND. 

"We have no ancestral halls hung round with armorial 
bearings to awaken admiration of an honored ancestry, and 
strengthen love of country. * * * * * But if we 
have none of those monuments of antiquity peculiar to the 
Old World, we have our homes, ancestral homes, though 
not of many generations, recollections of which, if properly 
cherished, can never be forgotten. The sons of the rock- 
bound portions of New England, as well as the dwellers in 
the midst of the flowery plains of their own sweet sunny 
South, can never forget their well-regulated hoines. Al- 
though the same land may not contain them, and seas divide 
them with "barriers of constant tempests," and though 
poverty and vice may overtake them, recollections of home 
will come back to them at times, ministering spirits wooing 
them back to the paths of virtue again. Should they be 
among the more fortunate of our race, and their lot cast in 
the high places of the earth, surrounded by all the allure- 
ments, the elegant luxuries, and the glittering trappings of 
the halls of the noble, their minds will at times break away 
from those enchanting scenes, and wander back with asso- 
ciations of the fondest recollections to the scenes of their 

20 



234 AMERICAN ORATORY. 

childhood and birth, as beheld from some wild turret of 
their native hills ; for 

"There is a land, of every land the pride, 
Beloved o'er all the world beside, 
Where brighter suns dispense serener light, 
And milder moons imparadise the night; 
For in that land of Heaven's peculiar grace, 
The heritage of nature's noblest race. 
There is a spot of earth supremely blest, 
A dearer, sweeter spot titan all the rest." 

Paterson. 



WE STOOP TO CONQUER. 

We stoop to conquer! Mr. Chairman, ex cry word of this 
scroll is big with meaning and fearful admonition, and 
there is no man can sec it without reading its full meaning, 
and comment is really unnecessary ; but I can not forbear 
making a few inquiries and exposes. I begin with the 
word we! Who are WE? That is an important question — 
who are WE ? The answer will be found in the efforts of 
those who, at the formation of our government, were op- 
posed to a democratic form, and who predicted its down- 
fall in less than half a century; who boldly maintained 
that the common people wanted the intelligence, stability, 
independence, and patriotism indispensable for self-govern- 
ment. The rich and better born should govern, and it is they 
who set themselves up for WE. * - * Why. sir, our 
Declaration of Independence, Constitution, and the whole 
frame of our government, recognizes in their letter and their 
spirit the universal principles of equality. Who would 
have thought that, even during the life of a remnant of the 
revolutionary fathers, who only live to link the living with 
the dead, we would have an upstart aristocracy that dare 
to designate themselves WE? And an upstart aristocracy, 
too, who, presuming upon the ignorance and stupidity of 
those to whom they deny the qualifications of self-govern- 
ment, insult them by not only a name that claims for them- 
selves superiority, but also pronouncing inferiority and 
contempt upon those whom they stoop to conquer. Is there 



WE STOOP TO CONQUER. 



an American, proud of his country, and proud of his free 
and equal institutions, who will not hold in contempt and 
scorn the vile wretch who would either attempt, or tolerate 
the attempt, to establish an order in this country who 
should designate themselves from the great body of Ameri- 
can citizens by the title WE, or any other title ? There is 
no man in whose veins courses a drop of the revolutionary 
blood that purchased our emancipation, or whose heart 
beats in gratitude for the services of the living and the 
memory of those who broke the chains, and unriveted the 
shackles that bound us to a British throne and a foreign 
despotism, who will not, in the spirit of deep concern and 
heartfelt emotion, inquire: Was it for this that our gallant 
ancestors lighted the beacon of rebellion that unfurled by its 
blaze the triumphant banner of Liberty? Was it for this 
that they pledged then* lives, then* fortunes, and their 
sacred honors. 



O. no ! it was not. It was that there might be one spot 
on the face of the earth where human equality might have 
a sure and undisturbed abode for all time. It was that 
there might be one spot on the face of the earth where man 
might be permitted to walk erect, carry in him a responsi- 
ble soul, and bear in his countenance the image of his 
Maker! 

But who are this rag-baron aristocracy who style them- 
selves WE, and thus stoop to conquer f They are the bank- 
ers, monopolists, loafers, gamblers, and blacklegs — wolves 
who lap the blood of honest toil and eat the bread they 
never earned (I except the honest who have been deceived); 
men who, like the lily of the valley, -'toil not, neither do 
they spin, yet Solomon hi all his glory was not arrayed like 
one of these." The answer will be found in the fact that, 
when all the coxcombs, all the fops, all the dandies, all the 
loafers, all the drones, and all the loungers, as well as those 
who live by their wits and their cunning, without honest 
means, shall be assembled, ninety-nine in each hundred of 
each class of the entire herd will be found to be "WE;" 
and the object which governs "WE," in all their political 
movements, is that system of policy which will make 
"hewers of wood and drawers of water" of the many to 
the few. WE stoop to conquer! O, sir, were the dead 



236 AMERICAN ORATORY. 

permitted to admonish the living', the gallant spirits of all 
who fell, either in our glorious revolution or have since 
sunk under the afflictions of wounds or weight of years, 
would marshal themselves here, and with tongues louder 
than seven trumpets denounce those who would overthrow 
the free and equal institutions erected by their toil, their 
blood, and their lives. Duncan. 



TAXATION IN ENGLAND. 

We can inform Jonathan what are the inevitable conse- 
quences of being too fond of glory. Taxes upon every arti- 
cle which enters into the mouth or covers the back, or is 
placed under the foot ; taxes upon every thing which it is 
pleasant to see, hear, feel, smell, or taste; taxes upon 
warmth, light, and locomotion; taxes on every thing in 
earth and the waters under the earth ; on every thing that 
comes from abroad or is grown at home ; taxes on the raw 
material ; taxes on every fresh value that is added to it by 
the industry of man; taxes on the sauce which pampers 
man's appetite, and the drug which restores him to health; 
on the ermine which decorates the judge, and the rope 
which hangs the criminal; on the poor man's salt; on the 
rich man's spice ; on the brass nails of the coffin, and the 
ribbons of the bride — at bed or board, couchant or levant, 
we must pay. The school-boy whips his taxed top ; the 
beardless youth manages his taxed horse, with a taxed 
bridle, on a taxed road ; and the dying Englishman, pour- 
ing his medicine which has paid seven per cent, into a 
spoon that has paid fifteen per cent., flings himself back 
upon his chintz bed, which has paid twenty-two per cent., 
makes his will on an eight-pound stamp, and expires in the 
arms of an apothecary who has paid license of a hundred 
pounds for the privilege of putting him to death. His 
whole property is then immediately taxed from two to ten 
per cent. Besides the probate, large fees are demanded for 
burying him in the chancel, his virtues are handed down to 
posterity on taxed marble, and he is then gathered to his 
fathers to be taxed no more ! 

In addition to all this, the habit of dealing with large 



TAXATION IX ENGLAND. 237 

sums Trill make the government avaricious and profuse : 
and the system itself will infallibly generate the base ver- 
min of spies and informers, and a still more pestilent race 
of politieal tools and retainer.- of the meanest and most 
odious description, while the prodigious patronage which 
the collecting of this splendid revenue will throve into the 
hands of government, will invest it with such vast influ- 
ence, and hold out such means and temptations to cor- 
ruption, as all the virtue and public honesty even of 
republicans will be unable to resist. 

Every wise Jonathan should remember this when he sees 
the rabble huzzaing at the heels of a naval or military hero, 
or inflaming the vanity of a popular leader. Such proceed- 
ings lower the character of their government with all the 
civilized nations of the world. Sidney Smith. 



TABLEAUX VIVANS. 



THE FOUR SEASONS- 

PERFORMED BY FOTTB GIELS REPRESENTING THE FOTJE SEASONS. 

Spring. Dress of light white material, trimmed tastefully 
with flowers ; a garland of flowers in her hand. 

Summer. Dress of blue over a petticoat of white; the 
upper dress looped with flowers, and a wreath of flowers on 
her head; a sickle in one hand and a sheaf of grain in the 
other. 

Autumn. Dress of yellow looped over a petticoat of green ; 
a basket of rich fruit in one hand and a bunch of grapes in 
the other; a wreath on her head of green and brown leaves 
intermixed. 

Winter. Dress of somber hue ; a black short cloak thrown 
over the shoulders; a hood upon the head, of dark material. 
Flour must be sprinkled over the head and shoulders to repre- 
sent snow. An ax in one hand and a faggot of wood in the 
other. 

This is an nppropriate tableau with which to open an exhibition, and can 
be performed with very little trouble and expense. 

Spring. Spring, Spring ! bright blooming Spring ! 
What life I give to every thing ! 
What joy I scatter with budding flowers! 
What strength I give with gentle showers ! 
Who does not envy my mission sweet ? 
Who does not with glee my coming greet ? 
Who does not long, after winters embrace, 
To see me come, with my smiling face ? 

Summer. My tender sister, beautiful Spring, 
'Tis true, to you much joy cloth bring. 
But Summer, with maturer grace, 
Must in your hearts hold a fond place ; 

(238) 



THE FOUR SEASONS. 239 

For beauty like mine can ne'er decay 
While over the earth I hold my sway, 
You love my cool, refreshing rain ; 
You love my hay and richer grain ; 
You love the mild soft summer air ; 
You love my flowers every-where ; 
You know to you a harvest I yield 
Of golden hue from the teeming field. 

Autumn. My gay smiling sisters, Summer and Spring, 
Have boasted to you of what they bring- 
To make the earth a gladsome place ; 
And tho 1 I come with a graver face, 
Still in your eyes I have a charm, 
In city large or on rustic farm. 
My luscious grapes and tempting fruit 
Your taste, I know, full well doth suit ; 
I am sure you love the mellow light 
That follows fan* Summers sun so bright ; 
I know that you love- the murmuring breeze 
That I send thro' the many tinted trees. 

Winter. My sisters three, Autumn, Summer, and Spring, 
To me are never inclined to cling. 
They call me cold, and say that I freeze 
The balmy air, as it floats through the trees. 
I know I bear a chilling mien, 
And flowers about me ne'er are seen; 
But still I have charms, you all must own, 
That give to life great pleasure and tone. 
The children all love me, I know full well, 
As their stockings at Christmas surely tell. 
I bring every year a world of mirth 
To the groups that meet 'round the blazing hearth. 
And tho' I am crooked, and bent, as you see, 
To part from old Winter you Tl never agree. 
( Curtain falls.) 



240 TABLEAUX VTVANS. 



THE COUNCIL OF BEAUTY. 




ISTo. 1, Venus. She is described clothed with a purple 
mantle glittering with diamonds ; by her side stands Cupid, 
his little hands clasping the folds of her flowing dress; 
around her are three graces (Nos. 6, 7, 8) ; one of them is 
holding up her train. No. 3, Flora, the Goddess of Flowers. 
She should be literally covered with flowers, and surrounded 
by cedar-trees fastened to heavy blocks of wood (the latter, 
of course, covered by something green). Flora is repre- 
sented bearing a garland of flowers in one hand and a 
basket of flowers in the other. A little nearer the front 
of the stage the Goddess of Song or Music, No. 4. She is 
standing with one hand resting upon a harp; a guitar, a 
flute, sheets of music, and elegantly bound books are thrown 
carelessly about her. No. 5, the Goddess of Painting. She 
is seated before an easel, with all the appointments of an 
artist. Several fine pictures should be placed negligently 
about her. 

As this tableau represents the Council of Beauty, each one 
who takes part in it should be looking inquiringly at Venus. 



QUEEN ELIZABETH AND AMY ROBSART. 241 



SCENE BETWEEN QUEEN ELIZABETH AND AMY 
ROBSART. 

TAXEN FROM KENILWORTH. 




1. A Fountain. 3. Amy Kobsart. 11 

2. Elizabeth. 8. Earl of Leicester. 

4, 5, 6, 7. Columns. 

Elizabeth. — Dress of pale blue silk, with silver lace and 
aiguillettes. The dress should be blazing with jewels. 

Amy. — Dress of sea-green silk, resembling the drapery of 
a Grecian nymph. 

Leicester. — Hunting suit of Lincoln green, richly em- 
broidered with gold, and crossed by a gay baldric which 
sustains a bugle horn and a wood knife. 

The stage must be decorated to represent an out-door 
scene — a grotto. 4, 5, 6, 7 are white columns. These can 
easily be made by fastening four poles securely (to the 
positions named) on the stage. Around the top of each 
pole tie a full white sheet, gathered like the skirt of a dress. 
After this is done the sheets can be drawn down (and 
tacked to the floor of the stage) in flutes, so as to resemble 
a fluted column. No. 1. A fountain, about which must be 
arranged flowers. No. 2. Elizabeth standing in an attitude 
of surprise. No. 3. Amy Robsart kneeling at the feet of 
the Queen, her hands clasped together. She is looking 

21 



242 TABLEAUX VIVANg. 

imploringly up in Elizabeth's face. Near her, on the 
ground is a casket. No. 8. Leicester: his form hidden 
from the view of the queen by the cedars and fountain. 
The expression of his face is one of painful surprise. Nos. 
9, 10, 11. Cedar-trees fastened to the stage. 



THE FOUNTAIN OF BLISS. 




Front of Stage. 

1. Fountain. 4. Lady. 

2. Lady. 5. Child. 

3. Child. 6, 7, 8, 9. Flower-pots. 

This is an uncommonly pretty tableau, but requires per- 
haps more industry and skill than many would care about 
exercising ; but, as I haye seen it, I can safely say it will 
repay the trouble it takes to make it. The reservoir of the 
fountain is made by taking a large round wooden bowl, 
such as is used for kneading dough. Coyer it by pasting 
white paper smoothly oyer the outside. Then take white 
pasteboard, cut it in oblong slips, to resemble a long leaf, 
narrow at the bottom, gradually widening to the top ; these 
strips, being tacked on the inside of the bowl (at the narrow 
end), leaving enough surplus to roll the top (or widest part 
of the strips) over the edge of the bowl, form a scalloped 
or ornamental finish, and resemble the basin of a fountain. 



THE FOUNTAIN OF BLISS. 243 

j Make the base on which the bowl rests to imitate the bottom 
and stem of a modern center-table. This must be covered 
with white also. Fasten the bowl firmly to the stem ; then 
bore a hole with an auger in the center of the bowl, in which 
to insert a rod four or live feet long ; this rod cover with 
white tulle (gathered full, like the top of an old-fashioned 
reticule), tied tightly around the top of the rod. reversely. 
When turned over and made to fall in the basin, it resembles 
falling water, if sprinkled with mica or dotted thickly with 
glass heads of different sizes (white). The effect is beauti- 
ful at night upon the stage, and must look natural, other- 
wise, a tableau, in which there was a fountain built in this 
way, would not have elicited the following remark from an 
old negro waiter, who had spent several winters in Frank- 
fort, Ky., serving the members of the legislature: "Why, 
■Miss Russell, dat looks jist like de fountin in de yard at de 
Capitol when it's froze stiff in de winter/' So, tableau 
performers can, by the above method, have something re- 
sembling a natural fountain, though it may look "froze 

stiff:' 

The stage for this tableau should be trimmed with cedar, 
and the floor of the stage covered with vines, leaves, or 
grass, to give the scene an out-door look ; the more pic- 
turesque the stage is decorated the better the effect. On 
the right of the fountain (No. 2) stands a lady dressed in 
becoming evening dress. In her hand is a silver goblet. 
She is in a half leaning attitude, looking down at a little 
girl, who is on her knees at the lady's feet, holding a silver 
bowl, into which the lady pours the water slowly from the 
goblet, The child is looking up playfully. On the left 
(No. 4) a lady, attired also in an evening dress, is looking, 
as she stands, intently at the fountain, with one hand rest- 
ing on the edge of the basin, and with the other taking a 
bouquet from the little girl who is half kneeling at her feet, 
JSTos. 0, 7, 8, 9 are flower-pots, filled with the most showy 
flowers that can be procured, placed about over the stage 
according to the taste of those engaged in the tableau. 
This tableau is intended to represent oriental life, and the 
dresses should be of this style. 



244 TABLEAUX VIVANS. 



THE STEALING OF THE KEYS OF LOCHLEVEN 
CASTLE DURING THE IMPRISONMENT OF MARY, 
QUEEN OF SCOTS. 



6 
5 4 



3 

2 



No. 1. Lady Fleming, attired in a somber-colored satin 
and a cap similar to Mary's, but plainer. No. 3. Catliarine 
Seyton, dressed in plain white; no ornaments. She is 
standing immediately behind Mary, looking intently at 
Lady Lochleven. No. 2. Mary, seated. Dress of black 
velvet ; a ruff open in front, so as to give a view of her chin 
and neck. On her head a small cap of lace, and a 
transparent white veil hanging from her shoulders over 
the black dress in loose folds. A cross of gold suspended 
from a light gold chain around her neck. A rosary of gold 
and ebony hanging from her girdle. No. 5. Lad} r Loch- 
leven standing near the table, attired hi a heavy black satin 
dress. A coif about her head. At her side, a little behind, 
stands (No. 6) the page, dressed in Highland costume, of 
fine cloth or velvet. A black hat and plume. No. 7. A 
window. No. 4. A table, on which is the Queen's supper. 
On the table, near the hand of Lady Lochleven (which rests 
on the table), is a huge bunch of "ponderous keys." The 
page has one hand on the keys, and is looking out of the 
window, to which he has called the attention of the super- 
stitious Lady Lochleven to "lights in the church-yard.'" 
The Lady Lochleven is looking out of the window. The 
countenance of Lady Fleming is anxious ; that of Catharine 



love's dream. 245 



eager and expectant. Mary's face is calm, and she is look- 
ing downward. The page looks half frightened, half 
quizzical. 



LOVE'S DREAM. 




No. 1. A bower, formed by placing small cedar-trees in 
heavy blocks of wood; these trees decorated with flowers. 
Under the arbor, No. 2, a large Elizabethan chair, or a sofa 
lounge, on which a girl dressed in evening costume reclines 
asleep. By her side a guitar. Half falling from her hand 
a gilt -bound book. Nos. 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. Flower-pots, with 
showy flowers. The pots must be hid by vines, leaves, or 
grass, so as to give the stage the appearance of a garden. 
No. 9. Cupid, in a half kneeling attitude, aiming an arrow 
at the heart of the sleeping beauty. 



BEAUTIFUL STAR. 

The stage decorated as in the scene between Elizabeth 
and Amy Robsart. A young girl dressed becomingly, 
with a bandeau about her head, with a brilliant star in 
the center. A guitar slung across her shoulder. She sings 
the well-known melody, 

"Star of the evening, beautiful star!" 



24G TABLEAUX VIVANS. 



DEATH OF CLEOPATRA. 




No. 1. A lnxii-.. us couch, upon which the queen reclines 
in royal dress. Her neck and arms bare. No. 2. A table. 
No. 3. A basket of figs, leaves, and flowers. One arm of 
the beauty rests near the basket, and about her wrist the asp 
is winding itself. A toy snake can be procured easily, or, 
what would be prettier, a necklace of gems in the form of 
a serpent. The scenery in this tableau must be strictly 
oriental. Much drapery makes it effective. .. No. 4. A lady 
attendant standing behind the couch in an attitude of sur- 
prise and horror, gazing at the queen. 



TOO LATE FOR THE CARS. 

A meanly dressed man, with a carpet-sack in one hand 
and an umbrella in the other, which he holds in a waving 
attitude, as if to stop the train. Behind him is a gang of 
dusty, common-looking children, all with eager faces ; and 
last in the group the mother, a faded dress, an old-fashioned 
bonnet, a big bundle hanging to one arm. and a baby clasped 
by the other. She too looks excited and angry. 



THE BEAUTIES OF . Mi 



THE BEAUTIES OF ■ 




In the center of the stage a hoop (the same as the one 
used in Peace and Prosperity) is placed upright, and in the 
center of the hoop, upon the white ground, the name of the 
place where the tableaux are performed. This tableau can 
only be acted by beautiful women, dressed in beautiful and 
becoming costume. One stands on the right and one on the 
left of the hoop, with one hand resting on the hoop, and in 
the other a bouquet or a handsomely bound book. At the 
feet of No. 3, to beautiful child engaged with a beautiful 
doll is seated. At the feet of No. 2 is another beautiful 
child, scattering flowers from a basket near her. The box 
behind the hoop can be elevated sufficiently to place upon 
it a vase of fine flowers visible to the audience. The atti- 
tudes in this tableau can be varied according to the taste of 
the manager. It is a very pretty tableau, and has been per- 
formed with success. 

Every town boasts its beautiful women, and this tableau 
is intended to give the citizens of a place the opportunity 
to take the palm in the way of beauties ; and therefore it 

must be called the Beauties of , the blank filled up by 

the name of the place where the tableaux take place. 



2-iS 



TABLEAUX VIVANS. 



PEACE AXD PROSPERITY. 




1. A large hoop. 6. The War God. 

2. Goddess of Liberty. 7. The Widow. 

3. Goddess of Justice. 8. The Widow's Children. 

4. Messenger of Peace. 9. Agricultural Implements. 

5. Messenger of Peace. 10. Plow-boy. 

In the center of the stage a hoop, as large in circumfer- 
ence as a buggy-wheel, is placed upright. This is covered 
with white muslin, drawn as smooth as a drum-head. In 
the center of the hoop is pasted, in large gilt letters, the 
words Peace and Prosperity. The outer edge of the hoop 
must be trimmed with a wreath of flowers. No. 6. On the 
left hand of the stage lies the God of War, prostrate, par- 
allel with the foot-lights; by his side the sword, shield, 
and helmet. No. 7. A lady in deep mourning, with a 
widow's cap upon her head. In her hand she holds an 
iron chain, one end of which is coiled about her neck, her 
eyes resting upon the faces of her children (No. 8), who are 
kneeling near her feet. No. 2. The Goddess of Liberty, 
with one hand resting upon the hoop ; in the other hand 
the liberty-pole and cap. Her eyes rest upon the Messen- 
gers of Peace. Xo. 3. The Goddess of Justice, one hand 
resting on the hoop, and in the other a pah' of scales. She, 
too, is looking at the Messengers of Peace. No. 11. Farm- 
ing utensils. A sheaf of wheat and a cornucopia half 



THE LITTLE PEACE-MAKER. 249 

emptied of its contents. No. 9. A plow. No. 10. A plow- 
boy in his shirt-sleeves, his collar open. One hand resting 
on the plow-handle, the other raising his hat in the act of 
welcoming peace. A large dry-goods box can be placed 
immediately behind the hoop, on which stands the Messen- 
gers of Peace (Nos. 4 and 5). These must be young, fair 
girls, dressed in pure white, their dresses of the yen' lightest 
material. Gauzy wings can easily be fastened to their 
shoulders. They stand upon the box (their busts only risi- 
ble) with their arms outstretched, with an olive branch in 
the hand of each. They are looking lovingly upon the 
group below. As the curtain rises the widow transfers her 
gaze from her children to the messengers, and says in a 
voice clear but with deep pathos : 

Hail, thou white-winged Messengers of Peace ! Now the 
dark wing of Apollyon is withdrawn from our national 
sky, bid us unbind the shackles that so long have fettered 
our dearest liberties. Let us hurl them [turns to the pros- 
trate form of the God of War] back to the dread source, 
and chain him to rocks of adamantine, lest he, by his ex- 
piring red-hot breath, convulse our fair country again. [As 
she speaks she unwinds the chain from aoout her neck and hurls 
it upon the fallen god. Turns full to the audience^ Now 
shall men beat their swords into plow-shares, them spears 
into pruning-hooks, and learn war no more. 

{Curtain falls slowly. Music: National air.) 



THE LITTLE PEACE-MAKER 

An out-door scene. Two boys dressed in a ragged, dirty, 
careless manner, with their coats off and shirt bosoms torn 
open. They have just been engaged in a tight. Standing 
between them, in the act of parting them, is a third boy 
about the same size, dressed in the neatest manner; every 
thing about him must indicate order and propriety. In one 
hand he holds a Bible. His face must be placid, while 
those of the belligerents must express evil passions, but a 
cowed manner. 

22 



-50 TABLEAUX VIVANS. 



THE THIRTEEN ORIGINAL STATES. 
+ 



10 3 

11 4 

12 5 

13 G 

7 
Front of stage. 

This is a beautiful and effective tableau. The cross in 
the center at the back of the stage represents the Goddes 
of Liberty, with flowing robes and light, graceful drapery, 
bearing in the right hand the pole and liberty-cap. (in 
either side of her, ranged in a semi-circle (the taller ones 
being placed near the Goddess), are thirteen girls, each 
■dressed in white. In the right hand of each a small shield 
on which is inscribed in distinct letters the name of the 
State she represents. The shield must be held just across 
the waist or breast, in full view of the audience. In the 
left hand a bouquet of bright flowers should be held. 
While the tableau is exhibited the band must play a na- 
tional air. The positions of the thirteen girls are indicated 
by the figures. The stage ought to be tastefully decorated. 
The shields can be made by cutting a piece of pasteboard 
in the shape of a shield, and pasting, four or five inches 
from the top, strips of red and white cambric alternately, 
up and down. The upper part is covered by solid blue 
cambric, and just where the stripes and the solid blue meet 
the name of the State should be pasted across. A strap on 
the under side, about four or five inches long, is sewed on, 
by which the shield is held in the desired position. I have 
seen this tableau performed, and it is striking. 



BORING FOR OIL. 251 



THE HONEYMOON. 

Stage prepared as a parlor. Near the front of the stage 
the young wife seated. Very close to her the newly-made 
husband is seated, holding a bouquet near his wife's face 
and fanning her with the other hand. His face wears an 
expression of admiration and devotion combined. The 
wife is looking up lovingly in her husband's face. They 
are both dressed with precision and neatness. 



A YEAR AFTER MARRIAGE. 

Stage prepared as a home scene. At one side of the 
stage the husband is seated with his feet propped against 
the wall, a cigar in his mouth, intently reading the daily 
paper. His face is averted from his wife, who is seated 
opposite, rocking a crib with her foot, in which rests the 
first heir to*the family. Her dress is careless and tawdry, 
(as must be that of the husband.) There is an expression 
of care, ill-humor, and discontent on her face. She looks 
toward her husband with frowning displeasure. 



BORING FOR OIL. 

The stage prepared as a business-office. An old gentle- 
man, with white wig and broad-brimmed hat. is walking- 
to and fro. 

Old Gentleman. Petroleum stock is on the rise. Let 
me see! [Studies.] Yes. yes; with such a dividend as that 
I will soon be classed with the millionaires of the country. 
Oil, oil! There is nothing like striking oil! [Seats him- 
self complacently. A half-groion Boy enters unperceived by 
Old Man. The Boy holds a large auger in his hand; ap- 
proaches behind and places the auger upon the crown of the 
Old Man's hat and begins to turn it round. Old Man turns 
and sees him.] You young scamp, what are you doing? 

Boy (laughs). Ha ! ha ! Heard you had oil on the brain, 
and thought I 'd bore for it. [Old Man shows fight.] 

(Curtain falls.) 



252 TABLEAUX VIVANS. 



COMIXG TO GET MARRIED. 




1. •' Squire. 


4. 


'Squire' 


2, Table. 


5. 


Groom. 


3. 'Squire's wife. 


6. 


Bride. 


7, 8, 9. Chairs. 







i daughter. 



A home scene. The country 'Squire or magistrate is 
seated near a table filled with papers. He is just looking 
round at the couple who have come to get married. They 
are standing in the door-way. The groom, a regular 
country greenhorn, with a swallow-tailed coat, stove-pipe 
hat, pants too short, a high stock instead of a cravat, and 
about a half yard of shirt collar. The bride's dress is 
equally outre. There is a look of "it is us, now stand 
around," on the face of the groom. The bride's eyes are 
cast down, but she clings closely to her chosen lord. The 
wife and daughter of the 'Squire are in the background, 
. peering curiously at the bridal party. The 'Squire's dress 
denotes his office. 



THE EXD. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



021 100 883 



